Dark Angels (71 page)

“Where are we off to?” he asked finally as they rolled past the royal mews and into Charing Cross.

B
ALMORAL FOLLOWED HER
into the Daniell house and stood back, not speaking, as she pleaded with Mrs. Daniell and Nan. “It will just be for a while, a few days. I’ll pay you handsomely for it.”

“How handsome?” asked Mrs. Daniell.

“Twenty-five shillings.” It was more than Mr. Daniell would earn in a year.

“I don’t want to let go my baby!” said Nan.

“Hush,” said her mother.

“Please,” said Walter.

“And two golden guineas when it’s done,” said Balmoral. “Come with the baby. It needs a wet nurse, isn’t that true?” He looked at Alice.

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“It’s done, then,” said Mrs. Daniell, taking the handkerchief from Alice’s hands, untying the knot, and letting go a big breath at the sight of what was, indeed, twenty-five shillings. “Bundle up what you need and be gone,” she said to her daughter.

Nan sat as still as possible in the jolting carriage, overawed to be in one. Only the presence of Walter, who held one of her hands, kept her quiet. Now that it was done, Alice sagged against the leather of the seat. I’ve gone mad, she thought. This will never work. Barbara will know. What is the matter with me? I’m like some jangling doll made of raw nerves that can’t be still a moment or it will fall apart. If it gives her one second of happiness, it will be worth it. Barbara is dying, and I wasted so much time being stupid about so many things that don’t matter at all. No matter who is in the chamber, I’m going to ask for forgiveness.

“Your babe is how old?” Balmoral asked Nan Daniell.

“Five days,” Nan answered.

“Fortune is on your side, so far,” he said to Alice. “She might believe it hers. One looks for such things before a battle, what is working in one’s favor. Too much against, and the battle is best left for another day. If your enemy is unwise enough to allow such.”

There was another carriage there when they arrived, and Alice saw Richard in the distance, near the campaign tent, standing with his horse, which was unsaddled and grazing placidly. So. Richard’s mother was here.

Inside the house there was an intriguing fragrance, sharp to the nostrils, cleansing. Smoke issued from a brazier, sitting at the fireplace, and with the smoke came the smell. John’s mother was on her knees there in prayer, not even raising her head to glance at Alice. “Wait here,” Alice ordered Nan.

Upstairs, opening the bedchamber door, she saw that Barbara slept. John sat in a chair at the bed, his head buried in his arms atop the blanket. Caro stood looking out the window. Jerusalem Saylor, Richard’s mother, held Barbara’s hand. There was another brazier on the table, light smoke issuing from it, the same sharp, clean fragrance more intense. And beeswax candles were burning.

“When she wakes, everything is ready,” Alice whispered. She was excited, like a child who knows its present will be best.

Caro turned from the window. “Oh, Alice, s-she isn’t g-g-going to w-wake. She’s gone.”

The shock of the words was like being thrown into an icy river. Alice’s thoughts went wild, scattered. She hadn’t told her over and over how much she loved her. She hadn’t begged forgiveness. She hadn’t spoken her folly and her shame. She’d thought there was more time. She walked to the bed, looked down. First friend. Her girlhood here, her secrets, her mischiefs, her silliness, her heart. How could it be ended? The pain was intolerable. She fell on her knees, sobs breaking out, jagged and harsh.

John raised his head. “I want to be alone with my wife.”

Alice could barely stand, but she groped her way out of the bedchamber. “Caro,” she whispered. There on the landing, she put her arms around Caro, clinging. At least I have this, thought Alice. I haven’t flung everything away.

But Caro unwrapped Alice’s arms, spoke through tears in that slow manner that was her way when she had given a matter much thought. “She a-always f-forgave you. But I d-don’t. It was a t-truce for Ra’s sake. Now she’s g-gone, and so is our friendship.”

Alice felt something in herself collapse. I deserve this, she thought. I deserve to be punished. It should be me instead of Barbara. She moved past Caro to run down the stairs, out into the lane, into the dusk. She wanted to scream until the sky cracked, wanted to somehow kill her own shame, kill herself, rather than feel this pain that was splintering in her. She started to run.

“Where’s she off to?” said Poppy. He walked into the lane. In the distance, he could see she was still running. Richard walked up beside him. Jerusalem Saylor stepped outside the house. “Go after her, Richard,” she called, her voice urgent.

Without a word exchanged, both men began to run.

Alice ran and ran, down Cockspur Street, out into a juncture of Charing Cross and the Strand, down Whitehall Street, into the first open arching gate of the palace, into the courtyard of Scotland Yard, her heels clacking on the cobbles and bricks, her heart hammering in her chest and head. Purge me with hyssop and I shall be clean. Wash me and I shall be whiter than snow. There was the river, the wonderful, deep river. She ran down the wharf where boats and wherries docked, unloading goods for the palace, ran past startled boatmen, ran to the end of the wharf, and leaped into the water. And then she just started walking, water coming up to her breasts, soaking in her skirts, mud pulling off her shoes, now it was at her neck, good, wash this shame, this folly, this pride, from me, and I shall be whiter than snow, she was thinking, under, she just wanted to go under, to get away from thoughts and pains and failures, from ambitions and plots, from wrong decisions, now it was at her chin, and the bottom was falling away under her feet, and the skirts of her gown were heavy, and that was good, she could do this, she wasn’t afraid of dying, it would be good to have it over, this business of life. Make me to hear joy and gladness, that the bones which thou has broken may rejoice. Perhaps she’d even see Barbara. She kept her eyes open, took a breath, and let her skirts drag her under.

Running out onto the wharf, Richard saw several rowboats clustered midriver, boatmen diving into the water. In moments, he had his boots, shirt, and jacket off and swam out to meet them. One of them had Alice by the neck. Her eyes were closed. They pulled her into a boat, her wet skirts making her as heavy as two men. Richard heaved himself into the boat. A boatman was pushing on her chest. Dear sweet merciful Lord in heaven, thought Richard. He knelt beside her. She coughed, gagged, spat up water, and began to fight. Richard had to wrestle her to the bottom of the boat to keep her from leaping back overboard. She screamed and clawed at him.

At the dock, he couldn’t coax her out of the boat.

The rivermen were terrified to touch her. He pulled her arms behind her, forced her back to the bottom, straddled her. She was still fighting. He tied her hands with his shirt. A boatman handed him rope, and he managed to pin her flailing legs. She writhed and screamed at him. She had to be washed, she said. She had to be cleansed. A crowd had gathered on the quay. She tried to twist her face away from their view.

He took a cloak from some bystander more than willing to give it up, put it around her, pulled up the hood so that her face was hidden by its shadow. Trussed as she was, he picked her up.

“I can’t live with this shame,” she said into his chest. And she began to cry.

They made quite a sight walking through alleys and courtyards of the palace. They gathered a small entourage of pages, Edward running ahead to open doors, ladies-in-waiting, courtiers joining as they neared the queen’s quarters, as Richard carried her to the maids’ bedchamber. She was crying now in a way that frightened him. He was astounded at both her will and her anguish. He shut the door on everyone save Poll. He pulled back the hood, looking at her face. She was at some edge he didn’t know how to reach toward, and fatigue was hitting him, in body and in heart, so he left her to her servant. In the guardroom, he ignored curious glances at his half-clothed state, went to his chamber, sat on the bed, pulled a blanket around himself, and closed his eyes, shivering at everything this day had brought. Time for prayer. So many needed it, John, the babe, Barbara, and now Alice.

C
HAPTER 41

T
hey planned to bury Barbara and the baby in the same casket. Alice dragged herself from bed to attend the service, but heat scourged her body the way regret and recrimination scourged her soul. Fever showed in her flushed cheeks, in her glassy eyes, in an ache that cleft her head apart with the slightest breath. She was at her father’s. She’d been taken from Whitehall in a litter a few days ago.

“Your father’s waiting.” Poll had glanced at her face and then away. “Here,” she said when Alice didn’t move, “lean on me.” She knew better than to say, You oughtn’t to go. Outside the bedchamber door, Poll handed her over to her father and Perryman. When Sir Thomas saw how unsteady she still was, saw the trembling, saw that her head seemed too heavy for her neck to bear, he said, “Poppet, you must stay home.”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. But when Perryman laid her in the bed, she was crying softly. “Please, let me go.”

Her begging weakness upset Sir Thomas more than he already was. “No. The last thing I need is you dying on me. I will throw two handfuls of dirt on the coffin, one for you and one for me.” He took her hand to kiss it good-bye and found himself afraid at how hot and dry it was.

T
HE FUNERAL SERVICE
was crowded, both Their Majesties attending, though King Charles did not even glance toward his queen, who sat in tiny hauteur with her ladies. On the very edge of them was Renée de Keroualle. Like everyone in the chapel, Sir Thomas craned for a view of her. Lovely. Magnificent jewels. Balmoral told him she was not yet the king’s mistress but reaped the rewards that she would be. A friend came and sat behind him in the pew, leaned forward to whisper that there had been a Romish service earlier, Their Majesties attending that, also.

“Was York there?” Sir Thomas whispered.

“Yes.”

Sir Thomas tapped impatient fingers on the wood beside him. Whether the heir to the throne had gone over to the Church of Rome was Balmoral’s chief concern; therefore, it was his chief concern. Eyes would be on the Duke of York at the Easter service to see if he took Communion in the Church of England or not. Do keep yourself on hand for Buckingham, Balmoral had said, smiling thinly. But do let me know whatever he asks of you. Balmoral’s sense of clarity was refreshing.

The service was beginning. Sir Thomas looked around to see who else was there. And everyone was, from the king’s former beautiful harridan of a mistress, Cleveland, to royal gardeners and musicians, to King Charles’s pet wits, Rochester and Sedley, to dukes, royal and otherwise. Balmoral nodded in his direction, and Sir Thomas swelled with pride. Sweet Jesus, to be allied to this man! He’d reached the pinnacle. The history of his climb was in this chapel: Men and women were here who’d been in exile with him, others who had sworn allegiance to Cromwell but bowed to Charles when the fates turned the wheel in that direction. Ten years ago, Roundhead generals had decided that with the death of Cromwell the protectorate would no long support anything but civil war, and the country was too exhausted for that and bowed to the exiled king. Now, of those powerful men, only Balmoral remained. Ten years ago, Sir Thomas had been so poor that he’d had to appeal to Alice’s aunt to loan the coins so he could dress himself and Alice for the triumphal entry into London.