Marigold Chain (21 page)

‘
No.’
Surprised and rather moved, Danny hugged her back and kissed her
cheek. ‘Goodbye, my dear.’ And was gone.

~ * * * ~

On the
twenty-eighth of May, the eve of both the King’s birthday and the
anniversary of his Restoration, the City of London planned to
celebrate the double event with a Grand Banquet and Masque at the
Guildhall. It was to be a memorably spectacular blend of food and
culture, purposely designed to eclipse the similar function which
would take place at Whitehall on the day itself and to which the
Aldermen and Guild-masters had not been invited.

It was
certainly to prove memorable and, even, in its way, spectacular.
The first sign that the occasion might not go exactly to plan was
when a corner of the embroidered awning fell on the head of an
Alderman. Mr Deveril watched through the carriage window as the
afflicted gentleman strove to uphold the canopy while the Lord
Mayor finished his lengthy speech of welcome. By the time it was
over, he had changed arms three times and Alex remarked that he was
glad it was only the royal party under there.

Inside the
banqueting hall, below the royal dais, chaos reigned as merchants
and their wives jostled for the best seats. Alex glanced about him
and then, looking at Chloë, said, ‘I suppose we could shout
‘Fire!’.’

‘
We
could,’ she agreed. ‘But not while we’re standing in the doorway.
Let’s just find a seat.
Any
seat.’

Mr Deveril took
her arm and forged a path through the crush to a table where there
were just two empty places. On one side sat the Earl and Countess
of Falmouth … and, on the other, Mr Simon Deveril and Lady Sarah
Marsden.

‘
Wonderful,’ said Alex, not quite under his breath. ‘It’s
going to be one of those days when one should just have stayed in
bed.’

‘
Speak
for yourself,’ said Chloë. And, choosing the seat beside Lord
Falmouth, sank into it with a swish of cream shot-silk.

Alex bathed
Simon and Sarah in a too-bright smile.

‘
How nice
of you to save us a place,’ he said. And sitting down, ‘Let the
games begin.’

Chloë, chatting
lightly with Charles Berkeley and his wife, was trying hard not to
listen to that other conversation on her right and finding it
difficult. She smiled at the Earl and asked him when he would be
re-joining the fleet.

‘
Tomorrow,’ he said cheerfully, ‘as early as I can manage it.
I’d have returned today but that I’d rather face Albemarle’s wrath
than the scold I’d have had for failing to escort my lady here this
afternoon.’

And Lady
Falmouth, who was young, pretty and, in Chloë’s opinion, quite the
nicest of the Duchess of York’s ladies, flushed and laughed.

‘
I should
think so too! Heaven only knows when I’ll see you again after
tonight – and Her Grace released me specially so that we could come
here together.’

Chloë made a
suitable reply and came to the conclusion that, though maintaining
a happy ignorance might do for an ostrich, it wasn’t for her. With
reluctant efficiency, she proceeded to lend an ear to what Cousin
Simon was saying to Mr Deveril and promptly learned that what
people said of eavesdroppers was true.

‘
But, of
course, dear Chloë is so very … challenging, is she not? I know
that Gresham finds her so.’ The soft voice held a thinly veiled
innuendo. ‘And we all know how His Majesty admires her.’

‘
Do we?’
asked Alex mildly. ‘But you know … one could almost believe that
you are jealous. The only question is – of whom?’

And that,
thought Chloë, definitely took care of that.

Her husband,
meanwhile, had turned to Lady Sarah.

‘
Still
without your estimable spouse, I see?’

She shrugged.
‘At home in bed. He hasn’t been well lately – his heart, the doctor
says.’

‘
Really?’
The pleasant voice was reproachful. ‘I’m surprised you chose to
leave him.’

‘
I have
nursed him,’ returned Sarah grittily, ‘for three days and now he’s
much better. He has his man-servant and he said I was to go and
enjoy myself – so I have. Is there anything wrong with
that?’

‘
You tell
me,’ invited Alex. ‘But how fortunate that my cousin was able to
escort you. What you might call keeping it in the
family.’

The food began
to arrive, borne aloft on silver salvers by line upon line of
liveried servers. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with it;
on the contrary, it was well-cooked, artistically presented and
carefully-served. It was simply that there was too much of it. For
in an orgy of competitive pride, the butchers had striven to
outshine the fishmongers and the pastry-cooks to demonstrate their
superiority over the bakers – and the result was a menu of
unrivalled variety and imagination. And in it came on relentless
feet and in no particular order, scenting the air with an exotic
blend of aromas and filling every available space until the boards
creaked beneath the weight.

Alex surveyed
it in fascination and said, ‘They’ve catered for the five
thousand.’

Chloë looked
and felt her appetite disappear along with an impulse to
giggle.

Sirloins of
beef lay flanked by cheeses and jellies; the hams jostled the
syllabubs and the lobsters lay cheek by jowl with strawberries and
quails; roasted geese looked down on oysters and custards and a
suckling pig, its mouth full of apple, glared balefully at a
panoplied peacock; the mackerel breathed over the sweetmeats and
the salmon slyly nudged the fruit tartlets, while delicately placed
piles of oranges loomed ominously over venison pasties and cream
darioles. There were chickens and melons, cakes, pies, rabbits,
pears and flans – all arranged in flagrant and riotous disorder –
and, not to be outdone, the wine-merchants had provided untold
casks and bottles of their best wares. The City of London had
surpassed itself.

Chloë drew a
long bracing breath and turned to look at her husband, who grinned
quizzically.

‘
Take
your pick,’ he said waving to the laden table. ‘Choose the lobster
and you’ll upset the butchers – take the peacock and the
fishmongers will never forgive you. Less a feast, you might say,
than a competition.’ He offered her a parsley-trimmed salmon. ‘For
what we’re about to receive, may the Lord make our digestions
sturdy.’

‘
Amen,’
sighed Chloë, resignedly helping herself from the dish.

For the next
two hours each of the City’s two hundred guests tried [to a greater
or lesser degree, depending on their capacity] to do justice to the
banquet – and failed. Indeed, a few of them failed before that and
were forced to retire to places less public. One of these, as luck
would have it, was Simon Deveril and, smiling vaguely, Alex watched
him go.

‘
He that
eats and runs away… ,’ he murmured.

With funereal
pomp, the remains of the feast were cleared away and some of the
boards withdrawn to make room for the entertainment. Chloë observed
that, though by no means drunk, Mr Deveril was at that hazy stage
some way removed from sobriety. She sat back to watch the
masque.

‘O
h Majesty enthroned with Sceptred
Rod

Oh King in Might; Oh Crown, oh Throne -
-
‘

‘
Oh God,’
said Alex, looking across at Lord Falmouth. ‘They didn’t commission
John Ogilby to write it?’

The Earl
nodded. ‘Bludworth liked his verse translation of Aesop.
Personally, I’d call it an acquired taste.’

‘
You mean
it’s awful.’

‘
It’s
awful,’ agreed the Earl, ‘but perhaps this will be
better.’

‘
I doubt
it,’ said Alex, settling back in his seat. ‘So let’s enjoy
it.’

The narrator,
meanwhile, had raised his voice to something approaching a
shout.

‘Our task
tonight good Masters is to tell

In epic lines,
a tale of danger fell

From which our
King was plucked by Fortune’s smile

To rise like
Phoebus o’er his Foemen vile.’

‘
They’re
doing the King’s escape after Worcester,’ said Lady Falmouth
gently. ‘I think perhaps they’ve made a mistake.’

‘
Probably,’ replied the Earl. ‘But His Majesty will love it
even if it’s abysmal.’

‘
If you
don’t mind,’ said Lady Sarah freezingly, ‘some of us are trying to
listen.’

‘
Good for
you,’ said Alex. ‘It would be a shame to miss poetry like
this.’

‘O Woe, thrice
Woe! The battle’s roar is done

And all is
lost beneath the setting sun.

The fated sky
grows dim; the angels weep –

‘
And
pinching Shakespeare’s words is pretty cheap,’ finished Alex,
folding his arms. ‘Are we in for spot-the-quotation
time?’

‘
Well, if
we are,’ said Chloë repressively, ‘I’m sure you’ll be the one to
inform us of it.’

Apparently
tired both of listening and being ignored, Lady Sarah gestured to
the six oddly-robed damsels ranged behind the narrator and said,
‘Those women – what are they supposed to be?’

Leaning back
between his former mistress and his titular wife, Alex glanced from
one to the other and then, choosing Chloë, said, ‘She wants to know
who the six lovelies are and I don’t know. Do you?’

‘
Well,
I
think,
’ said Chloë
cautiously, ‘that they are the Muses.’

‘
She says
they’re Muses,’ he told Sarah. And then, again to Chloë, ‘Shouldn’t
there be nine of them?’

‘
Yes. But
do you really want three more?’

‘
Like
these? No.’ Mr Deveril eyed the Muses critically. ‘I wonder why the
one in blue has her finger in her mouth … or no. Polyhymnia, do you
think? Muse of Mimic Art?’

‘
Very
likely.’ Chloë was trying not to laugh and finding it difficult.
She pointed to the five homespun-clad youths who had just come in.
‘And those?’

‘
They’re
the Penderel brothers,’ said the Earl, ‘Oh Lord – is that meant to
be the King?’

They all looked
at the florid, beefy figure. Chloë stifled a giggle, Lady Falmouth
hid behind her fan and Mr Deveril and his lordship dissolved into
not quite silent mirth. Lady Sarah eyed them all with cold
incomprehension.

Things got
worse rather than better. The famous oak tree got wedged in the
doorway and finally arrived minus a branch or two … and Terpsichore
executed an enthusiastic, rather than graceful dance around it
while the King crouched symbolically beneath its painted boughs.
The viols scraped and the noise level rose.

‘
I don’t
think I can take much more of this,’ said the Earl a little
wildly.

‘
You’ll
have to,’ replied Chloë. ‘The tree’s stuck again.’

A large soprano
accompanied by Euterpe’s lute was making an ineffective attempt to
be heard over the chatter. Chloë winced as the heavy voice wobbled
through a flood of semi-quavers in the upper extremity of its
range.

‘
That’s
Jane Lane,’ Alex told her. ‘The King posed as her groom and they
rode pillion to Bristol. Those two would need an elephant. Oh good
– they’ve got rid of the tree. Now the Roundheads can get
in.’

Clinging grimly
to the shred of her composure, Chloë watched the soldiers
blundering down the hall. Two of them became inexplicably entangled
and a third ended in the Earl of Rochester’s lap. Meanwhile the
Muse of History screeched verses over the din.

‘Oh men of
iron! Oh beasts of cloven foot!

In massy hordes come seeking blood to gloot
–
‘

‘
Gloot?’
asked Alex.

‘
Glut,’
supplied Chloë unsteadily.

‘
Their hungry blades; oh woe and thrice, thrice
woe!’

‘
Alas!
Alack! Ah me! And thrice ditt
o
,’ finished Mr Deveril triumphantly.

‘
Stop,’
gasped Chloë, sorely tried. ‘They’re doing their best.’

‘
Perhaps.
But it’s a comedy but they left Thalia out. She’s wreaking her
revenge. Look -they’ve got trouble with the doors
again.’

‘
It –
it’s a ship!’

Alex
nodded. ‘The
Surprise
… what
a pity they bent the mast. It looks a little limp, don’t you
think?’

It did but it
trundled on towards the beckoning Muse of Astronomy and narrowly
avoided running her down. The King stepped cautiously aboard and
the ship turned and set sail for France. Urania, brandishing her
compass, lured it from a safe distance and Calliope boomed an epic
farewell.

‘And so adieu!
Sail safe o’er waters blue

While England
to itself rests all untrue;

For thou wert
saved by God’s Celestial hand

To rule
restored once more in this fair land.’

It was
not quite the end, however. As the
Surprise
rolled back down the hall, she raised
her hatch-covers and out of them flew a cloud of white doves. Out
and up they winged their way, blurring the high, painted ceiling
and startling the well-dressed noisy gathering below into silence
at last.

Mr Deveril
watched them appraisingly.

‘
I don’t
think,’ he said at length, ‘that this was a good idea.’