The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3) (2 page)

‘When
you
tell him to?’

‘Yes. Just because I no longer go on-stage myself, doesn’t mean my opinion doesn’t carry any weight.’

‘No. I’m sorry.’ The girl sighed, turning to look at the woman who was both her friend and her mentor.
 
Until a runaway dray had left her with a scarred left cheek and a slight limp, Pauline Fleury had enjoyed a dazzling stage career of her own.
 
Since then, however, she’d kept the theatre running on well-oiled wheels and lived again through a series of carefully chosen protégées.
 
‘I know how lucky I am to have you helping me.
 
And I also know that, no matter how hard I work, I’ll never be as good as you. But it’s been five
years
, Pauline.
 
How much longer do I have to wait before I’m given a chance?’

‘Not long.
 
Just a few more months as a walker and then --’
 

‘But it’s so
boring!
 
Walk here, stand there.
 
Smile, hide behind your fan.
 
Exit downstage right.
 
And so on and so on – and bloody so on.
 
It’s driving me sodding mad.’

‘That’s as maybe – but it’s how everyone starts.’
 
Madame Fleury looked up from the hem she was mending.
 
‘I thought that, amongst a number of other things, I’d taught you to pass as a lady?’

The porcelain skin flushed a little.
 
‘You did.’

‘Then you’ll watch your language.’

‘I do.
 
Mostly.’
 
The girl picked restlessly at a fold of her shabby skirt.
 
‘It just feels as though everything I’ve learned is being wasted.’

‘My heart bleeds.
 
However, if you feel that your potential is going unrecognised and that I’m holding you back, you can always go and audition for Floridor at the H
ô
tel de Bourgogne.
 
I won’t say you’ll be much better off than here.
 
But so long as you can regurgitate the right words and walk across the stage without tripping over your feet, he’ll take you on for your looks alone.’

The flush deepened.
 
‘I don’t want that.’

‘In which case, you’ll hold your tongue and stop complaining – or find another way of earning your living.’

‘I don’t want to do that, either.’

And she didn’t.
 
She really didn’t.
 
Life in the theatre carried its penalties, of course; automatic excommunication at the beginning, burial in unconsecrated ground at the end … and, in between, the widespread assumption that one was a whore.
 
But for a girl born in a dingy back-street to a retired mercenary and a laundress, even the gift of beauty brought few choices.
 
Marriage, perhaps, to an artisan or a tradesman who’d provide her with a roof over her head and a child a year; work as a maid, scrubbing pots and polishing floors whilst fending off the attentions of the master of the house; or selling her body at street corners in the hope of attracting a rich protector.
 
To all of which, the stage was infinitely preferable.

Consequently, with a reluctant grin, she said, ‘All right, Pauline.
 
You’ve made your point – and I’ll behave.
 
It’s just that I’m two weeks behind on the rent and the old witch of a landlady lies in wait every time I step through the door.’

 
‘Perhaps if you stopped that old sot you call your father spending every last sou in the wine-shop, paying for the hovel you live in wouldn’t be so much of a problem,’ said Pauline tartly. Then added, ‘Is
that
what all this has been about?
 
Money?’

‘Partly.
 
I can’t make ends meet on what I earn as a walker.
 
The increase in wages I’d get for just a handful of lines would make all the difference.’
 
She sat up again, a look of uncertainty crossing the beautiful face.
 
‘There’s Delphine and Hortense as well.
 
They’ve been waiting for a role as long as me.
 
What if Froissart picks one of them?’

Pauline gave her a look of impatient incredulity.

‘Oh – for God’s sake!
 
Hortense has a voice like a shrew and Delphine’s turning into a tub of lard from all the pastries she stuffs herself with.
 
Neither one of them can hold a candle to you – not in looks nor in talent, either.
 
The next new face will be yours. But not just yet.
 
Timing is the important thing.
 
If we get that right, I’m counting on you eclipsing Marie d’Amboise inside a year.’

The grey eyes flew wide and then the girl burst out laughing.

‘Me?
 
Steal parts from Madame d’Amboise?
 
Now I
know
you’re joking.’

‘I’m not.
 
She admits to being thirty-five – which means she’s at least forty – and she’s been leading-lady at the Marais since I made way for her.’
 
Pauline’s mouth curled in an acidulous grin.
 
‘Time she bowed out in favour of some new blood. You.’

‘Bloody hell!
 
Sorry.
 
You actually mean it, don’t you?’

‘Yes.
 
I actually mean it.
 
A fresh face.
 
What are you now?
 
Nineteen?’

‘Twenty – as of yesterday.
 
September the sodding second.
 
Sorry, again.’

‘You should have said.
 
I’d have brought you a cake.’

‘After what you just said about Delphine?’

Pauline gave a snort of laughter.

‘Maybe not.
 
But there’s something you’ll need to consider before you make your debut.
 
At least, I’m assuming you won’t want your real name on the playbill?’

‘God, no.’ She shuddered.
 
‘Over my dead body.’

‘So you’ll need to come up with a stage name.
 
Not something like Floridor or Bellerose.
 
Something that sounds real.’

There was a long silence and finally the girl said slowly, ‘Actually, I already have.’

‘And?’

‘Athenais de Galzain.
 
I’d like to become Athenais de Galzain.’

~
 
*
 
*
 
~
 
*
 
*
 
~

‘The army may look well – but it won’t fight.’

General Leslie to Charles the Second

On the first day of January, 1651, Francis Langley stood at the back of Scone Cathedral and watched a tall young man, five months short of his twenty-first birthday, receive – as a reward for several months of gritting his teeth – something which already rightfully belonged to him.

On the surface, the occasion looked just as it should.
 
The young Prince, robed as befitted his station and with the royal regalia laid out before him, sat beneath a crimson velvet canopy supported by the eldest sons of six Earls.
 
The vacant throne stood atop an impressive stage, some four feet off the ground and covered in rich carpets … around which the flower of Scottish nobility, splendidly attired, rubbed elbows with the cream of the Kirk.
 
But there the illusion ended.
 
For the crowning of a king, though a serious business, ought also to contain an element of rejoicing; and this one had so far been about as cheerful as an interment.

It wasn’t a surprise.
 
After forcing Charles to take both Covenants, making him publicly repent the sins of his parents as well as his own and ordaining two fast days, the Scots were scarcely likely to allow the coronation itself to be marred by any hint of pleasure.
 
The handful of English Royalists had been relegated to the edges; the Engagers, those gentlemen who’d fought for the late King at Preston, had been prohibited altogether; and the only persons permitted to have a hand in the ceremony itself were those whose Covenanting principles met the exacting standards of Archibald Campbell, Marquis of Argyll. Francis, of course, wasn’t supposed to be there at all – which is why he was lurking as unobtrusively as possible in a dimly-lit corner.

The Moderator of the General Assembly delivered an epic sermon, liberally laced with gloom.
 
Major Langley shifted his shoulders against the cold stone, smothered a yawn and let dire warnings about tottering crowns and sinful kings flow over him.
 
One became immune, after a time, to austere Scottish strictures.
 
And a formal crowning would do much to dilute such humiliations.

Charles knelt to affirm his oath to the Covenants.
 
His voice was devout enough and his promise to establish Presbyterianism in his other dominions was made without a hint of either reluctance or cynicism.
 
Francis smiled, silently applauding … and immediately found himself encompassed by the obliquely considering stare of the fellow who’d ridden in on the previous evening with a bundle of heavily-sealed letters.
 
Francis responded with one sardonically raised brow before restoring his attention to the ceremony.
 
Not everyone, he reflected, thought this particular game worth the candle.

Charles ascended the waiting throne.
 
Lord Lyon, the King of Arms, announced that he was
the rightful and undoubted heir of the Crown
and those present responded with a resounding cry of
God save King Charles the Second!
– upon which His Majesty was escorted back to the chair he’d occupied during the interminable sermon for the reading of the Coronation Oath.
 
Francis watched Charles kneel to affirm this before being invested with kingly robes and the articles of state; he set his jaw and suppressed a desire to fidget when the minister prayed that the Lord would
purge the Crown from the sins and transgressions of them that did reign before
; and he let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding when the Marquis of Argyll finally placed the crown on Charles’s head.

The tradition of anointing the sovereign had been dispensed with as superstitious ritual but, at long last, Charles was declared King of Great Britain, France and Ireland; and, amidst more pious exhortations from the Moderator, he was led to the throne so that the nobles could touch the crown and swear fidelity.

‘Argyll the kingmaker,’ murmured the courier.
 
‘And even more Friday-faced than usual.
 
The debacle at Dunbar, do you think?
 
Or perhaps it’s merely that squint of his.’

Francis turned his head and encountered a gleaming stare.

‘Both, I imagine.’

‘But one more than the other,’ came the bland reply. ‘Contrary to present appearances, his power isn’t quite what it was.
 
One even hears rumours of the return of Hamilton.’

Wondering where someone who’d only just arrived might have picked up that particular rumour, Francis said gently, ‘Does one?
 
I wouldn’t know.
 
But it would certainly account for Argyll’s expression … even allowing for the squint.’

The other man said nothing.
 
The Scots finished swearing fealty and King Charles the Second rose to solemnly beseech the ministers that if at any time they saw him breaking his Covenant, they would instantly tell him of it.
 
Then, with becoming dignity and a flourish of trumpets, the royal procession passed back down the aisle … and, in due course, Francis found himself outside with the rest.

His companion from the cathedral was nowhere to be seen and, instead, his arm was taken by the Duke of Buckingham, who drawled, ‘The throne’s gain is clearly the theatre’s loss.
 
Such clarity of diction despite having his tongue firmly in his cheek!
 
I’m impressed.’

‘And indiscreet,’ sighed Francis.
 
‘Shall we go?
 
It’s extremely cold and the banquet awaits.’

‘It’s bound to be dreary.
 
There will be speeches, God help us all … and insufficient wine to drown them out.
 
But I’m amazed the coronation committee thought fit to invite you – if indeed they did?
 
Come to think of it, I’m not
entirely
sure why they asked
me
.’

It wasn’t true, of course.
 
Twenty-two years old, blessed with startling good looks and frequently too clever for his own good, George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham, was not used to being ignored.
 

Smiling faintly, Francis said, ‘For your entertainment value, George.
 
Why else?’

‘Do you think so?
 
I thought it had rather more to do with my having been more or less reared alongside the Lord’s
un
anointed.
 
But I daresay you know best … so I’ll try to live up to everyone’s expectations.’

Inside the banqueting chamber, wax candles burned bright and log fires blazed in the great hearths.
 
Long tables gleamed with silver plate, fine glassware and monogrammed damask and, winnowing between these and the arriving guests, liveried servants handed out cups of spiced wine.
 
No expense, it appeared, had been spared.
 
It was just a pity, thought Francis, that the company wasn’t better.

Undeterred by the fact that His Majesty was still hemmed in by Argyll and a clutch of black-clad ministers, Buckingham sauntered towards him.
 
Francis made polite conversation with various acquaintances and then took his place, as directed, at one of the lower tables with the rest of his unwelcome compatriots.

‘Well, well,’ said a familiar voice cheerfully. ‘You again.
 
We are obviously perceived to be of the same lowly status.
 
Or do I mean tarred with the same brush?’

Francis turned slowly and took his time about replying.
 

Of roughly his own age and height, the courier was as fair as he himself was dark and dressed in well-worn buff leather.
 
Knowing how few Royalists had any money these days and aware that his own blue satin was decidedly shabby, Francis passed over this sartorial breach and concentrated on the intelligence evident in the fine-boned face and the gleam of humour in the dark green eyes.

Holding out his hand, he said lightly, ‘Francis Langley – unemployed Major of Horse.’

His fingers were taken in a cool, firm grip.

‘Ashley Peverell – jack-of-all-trades,’ came the reply.
 
And, dropping into the adjacent seat, ‘Don’t tell me.
 
You were purged from the army before Dunbar?’

‘Well before it.
 
And you?’

‘Oh – I was already
persona non grata
.’
 
Bitterness mingled oddly with nonchalance. ‘I fought at Preston – for all the good that did.’

An Engager, then
, thought Francis.
If Argyll knew that, the door would have been slammed in your face
.
But it explains how you know about Hamilton
.
 
He said merely, ‘I was at Colchester.’

‘Ah.
 
Then you doubtless have better cause for resentment than I.
 
However.
 
At least you haven’t become a glorified errand boy.’

The conversation had arrived, quicker than Francis expected, at the point which interested him.
 
He said, ‘The letters you took to the King last night?’

‘The very same.
 
Speculation rife, is it?’

‘Naturally.
 
Anything to break the monotony.’

Ashley Peverell grinned.

‘A cry from the heart, if ever I heard one.
 
But I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you.
 
I’ve merely been doing the rounds in England.
 
You know the sort of thing. Can you offer a few guineas to help feed and clothe your King?
 
Alas, sir, I can barely feed and clothe my family
.
 
Can His Majesty rely on your support in the event of another invasion?
 
He has my very good wishes, sir.
 
More than that, I cannot guarantee.
 
And so on and so on and depressingly, unsurprisingly so on.’

Francis frowned.
 
‘Is it really as bad as that?’

‘Yes.
 
Oh - people are sick of the so-called Commonwealth.
 
They’re tired of the Rump clinging to power while it ordains fines for swearing and penalties for adultery – and they resent the monthly assessments and the Excise.
 
But not everyone will ally themselves with the Scots and many wish His Majesty hadn’t taken the Covenant.
 
Then again, out of the total support I
have
been promised, experience has taught me not to expect to see more than half of it when the time comes.’

‘You’re turning into a cynic, Ash,’ remarked a voice from the far side of the table. ‘It won’t do, you know.’

Two pairs of eyes, one green and one deep blue, turned towards the speaker – a thin-faced young man with a shock of unruly brown hair.

‘My God,’ groaned Ashley. ‘Somebody should have warned me.’
 
Then, laughing and stretching out a hand, ‘How are you Nick?
 
Still looking for dragons to slay?’

‘You could put it that way,’ returned Sir Nicholas Austin, accepting the hand with unabashed good-humour, ‘though I personally wouldn’t. And I suppose you’re going to tell me that there are plenty of them here.’

‘Look around and judge for yourself.’

Nicholas cocked an eyebrow at Francis.

‘Major Langley – I’m shocked.
 
I thought you only had truck with respectable people.’

‘One tries,’ murmured Francis.
 
‘As it happens, Mr Peverell and I have only just met.’

Nicholas blinked and opened his mouth to speak.
 
Forestalling him, Ashley said, ‘Hallelujah.
 
The food is coming.
 
Along, I hope, with another jug of claret.’

Taking the hint, Nicholas said, ‘Hold on to that hope but don’t rely on it.
 
They’ll be making sure no one gets drunk.
 
After all, it would be a pity if we started to enjoy ourselves, wouldn’t it?’

The food was good and plentiful.
 
Capons jostled numerous varieties of fish, venison sat cheek-by-howl with partridge and woodcock, and delicately flavoured creams and custards nestled between pastries filled with beef and apricots.
 
The wine, on the other hand, continued to arrive slowly and in niggardly quantities.
 
Even the King, still politely listening to Argyll, was frequently seen to be nursing an empty glass.

Ashley diverted a flagon from a table to his right and Francis liberated another from the one behind him.
 
Vociferous complaints arose. From his place beside Charles, his Grace of Buckingham watched enviously.

‘It seems to me,’ remarked Ashley Peverell at length, ‘that our sovereign lord deserves a small celebration more in keeping with his tastes.’

‘I daresay,’ agreed Francis.
 
‘But exquisite ladies of easy virtue don’t exactly abound in Perth.
 
And his reputation is widespread enough already.’

‘His bastard by Lucy Walter?
 
Quite.
 
But he must be able to enjoy himself outside the bedchamber.
 
Amidst friends, for example … over a few bottles, in the private room of a tavern.
 
It shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange.’