Royal Harlot (19 page)

As soon as I read the public copy of the declaration for myself, I understood at once the king’s confidence in Sir Edward’s abilities as a barrister and a diplomat. Never was there another legal document more judiciously worded to achieve desired goals, nor to make the king appear the true patron of peace, grace, and righteousness. Grudgingly even I had to praise the genius in it, and agree that in this the fat old breakwind had earned his salt.

Both the letter and the declaration were read aloud in the House of Commons on the first of May. On that same day, the House passed a resolution inviting their king to return and lead the government and the country. The members had not left the House before the plans for the coronation had begun. Not one further drop of blood had been spilled to achieve this wondrous revolution, and if that was not in itself a miracle, then I know not what else could be.

The rejoicing in London and across the country was universal. Suddenly it was a good thing—no, a great thing!—to be a Royalist. Even my cousin Buckingham, a weathercock if ever there was one, had stopped flaunting his parliamentary wife and had taken to sporting his Garter instead, brave upon his chest for the world to see. All the gaiety that the Puritan rule had ground down came bubbling back to the surface. People danced and sang and drank freely in the streets, and much more in the spirit of the old May Days occurred between men and women in the parks that night, as open in their coupling as dogs—a celebration of the new freedom that disgusted Roger but made me laugh with amusement, and with sympathy. I understood their fever.

The hand of Providence had reached down to the king, and he’d happily accepted every blessing that now came spilling his way. Everything was changing in London. Nothing would ever be the same for any of us. Soon the king would be restored to his rightful place and have his throne, his crown, his country, his cheering subjects.

And me.

 
A little less than a month later, I sat on the bench with the woven-cane seat in Roger’s chamber, watching his servant dress him for his role in the great procession to welcome the king back to London. This procession had begun the moment the king had landed at Dover, greeted on the beach by General Monck himself, and now, after having passed through Canterbury, Rochester, Blackheath, Deptford, and every other little town or village in its path, it was at last set to reach its glorious conclusion today in London.

“I don’t see why I can’t watch like everyone else in London, Roger,” I said, waving my fan before my face. It was still morning, but the day was already warm for May. “To miss the first chance in my entire life to see an English king in London!”

“I’ve given you my reasons before, Barbara,” Roger said, pretending to be the very soul of patience. “But foremost among them is that it’s not proper for my wife to display herself so publicly.”

He looked not at me but studied his own reflection in the glass as the servant fastened the long row of tiny pewter buttons on his doublet. Every tailor in London had spent this last month working long by candlelight, for every gentleman wished a new suit of clothes in which to honor the king. Roger’s doublet and breeches were a soft buff color, with pale blue ribbon points all around and a matching short cloak. His stockings had deep cuffs of knitted lace that flared over the tops of his boots, and his tall-crowned beaver hat carried a curling white plume. Yet such finery looked more like a costume than gentleman’s dress on Roger, his pale face sitting atop his shirt’s collar like a disembodied mask.

“Oh, pish, Roger, no one will be looking at me,” I said. “Every eye will be upon the king, and nowhere else.”

“The king could be naked on his horse, Barbara,” he said, “yet more would gaze at you. Should I wear my ribbon and sword over the cloak, or beneath?”

“Over the doublet, under the cloak,” I said, thinking how Roger himself seemed perfectly capable of not gazing at me, even though I wore nothing beneath my pink dressing gown. “I could take Wilson with me, and a footman, too, if that would appease you, and I—”

“No, Barbara,” he said sharply. “That’s my last answer. It’s not safe for you to be among the crowds on the street.”

I sighed my unhappiness. “Do you remember when we went to view the procession for Cromwell’s funeral? We stood along the Strand for hours, and no one disturbed us then.”

“How can you consider that the same at all?” he asked incredulously. “Besides, I was there to watch after you. If you stand at the open window, you should be able to hear the trumpets and the cheering. That’s the convenience of this house being so nicely located.”

I crossed to the open window, looking down into the Privy Garden of Whitehall Palace that lay beyond our farther fence. As soon as he’d been returned to Parliament, Roger had begun to hunt for a house more appropriate to our new station than our own lodgings, though he’d found none that had suited. Then this one had been offered to him—quite magically, he thought. Belonging formerly to Cromwell’s cousin Edward Whalley, who’d fled to New England when he’d received no pardon from the king, the house in King Street—oh, what delicious irony!—was large and fine, and situated between the palace and Parliament House, with Admiral the Earl of Sandwich and his lady as our closest neighbors. Roger believed the house had come to him as the first of his rewards for his loyalty and that loathsome thousand pounds.

I, however, knew otherwise. This fine house and its clever location so near to the palace had been granted not for Roger’s convenience, but the king’s.

“I’ll remember everything to tell you, Barbara,” he said, lifting his arms so his servant could buckle the wide belt with his scabbard. “It won’t be the same, I know, but you won’t be the only lady left at home today. This is the most important day for England in our lifetimes, and the procession and the ceremonies afterward—it’s how we gentlemen will demonstrate our fealty to the king. What is it, Wilson?”

“Forgive me, Master Palmer,” Wilson said, standing in the doorway. “I came to ask if Mistress Palmer was ready to dress.”

“She’s with me now, Wilson,” Roger said, more crossly than was necessary. “She’ll come to you once I leave.”

“Yes, sir.” Wilson curtseyed again. Yet as soon as Roger turned away, she held up a small letter for me to see. I knew what that letter would say, just as I knew Wilson was showing great wisdom in keeping its arrival secret from my husband. My heart racing with excitement, I nodded quickly before Roger could notice, and Wilson ducked away.

“I still wish I could watch today, Roger,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t betray me. “He’s to be my king, too.”

“I’m sorry, Barbara, but for your own safety, I must insist.” He kissed me with dutiful regard on the cheek, not embracing me so as to keep from mussing his finery. “There will be plenty of parties and dances at the palace to come, I’m sure of it. From what I know of the king, he’ll insist upon it. You won’t be neglected.”

“Oh, I know that,” I said, and smiled. “When will you be home?”

“Late, very late,” he said, full of his own importance. “Perhaps not even until tomorrow. You know how these ceremonial events can be. You go to bed whenever you please. Don’t wait for me.”

“I won’t.” Oh, that was so wicked of me, agreeing to all those things that Roger was saying with another meaning in my thoughts! “Good day, then.”

“Good day to you, too,” he said, and from the door he solemnly touched the brim of his plumed hat in salute. “And God save the king!”

As soon as I heard the front door of the house close after him, I hurried to find Wilson, who was in turn hurrying up the stairs to me with the letter outstretched in her hand. I caught her on the landing and pulled her and the letter into the nearest room, shutting the door tight after us so none of the other servants might hear us.

“The king?” I asked, even as I tore the letter from her hand. “Oh, please, please, say it’s so!”

“It is, madam,” Wilson said, nearly as excited as I. “But oh, Mistress Palmer, if Mr. Palmer had seen the page that brought it! Dressed in crimson and gold, he was, the Whitehall livery. What would he have said then?”

“My husband would have simply assumed the page was delivering some message of importance to him, though God would needs have preserved me if the page had given Mr. Palmer this.” Swiftly I scanned the letter, and I pressed my hand to my cheek. “Oh, Wilson, he wants me to join him—to be waiting for him this very night!”

“Here, madam?” she exclaimed in an awestruck whisper. “His Majesty wishes to visit you here?”

“No, no,” I said, the awe in my voice as well. “He wants me to come to his rooms in the palace. He wants to spend his first night in London with me—with
me
.”

Everyone who was in London that glorious day—and a great many who weren’t, but pretend to have been—has their own recollection of how warmly the city and people welcomed the return of the king, “this miraculous prince,” as the Dutch did call him. For those who admitted to having been denied such a memory, there were plenty of paintings by artists there to document the ceremonies, and before the end of the summer it seemed that prints of the procession were pinned to the wall of every tavern and rum shop from Portsmouth to Glasgow.

As for me, I saw none of the king’s triumphant entry with his two younger brothers, James, Duke of York, and Henry, Duke of Gloucester, across London Bridge, riding bareheaded in the sun to display his humility and trust of his subjects. In this I obeyed my husband’s edict, not so much that I was the demure wife he wished me to be, but because I feared I’d be spied by one of his friends, and sent home under a more fearsome guard that would prevent me from stirring from the house later.

So yes, I missed the tapestries that hung from the windows and balconies of the great houses along the Strand, and the silken banners that drifted in the breeze from every pole. I only heard later of the girls who’d ridden in wagons from the country long before dawn to strew the path of the king ankle-deep with flowers. I never saw the ranks of cavalry, bright in crimson and gold, as they cantered through the streets, or the stalwart Life Guards. The endless assemblies of dignitaries grand and small—the members of both Houses, the mayor of the City and his aldermen, the ambassadors from every court in Europe—marched in dignified phalanxes or rode their steeds without my notice.

Instead I joined the celebration in my own way, my memories singular to me. For given my circumstances, how, really, could they be otherwise?

It was shortly after nightfall when the plain carriage came to our door for me. Though Whitehall Palace was close by, near enough for me to have walked with ease if I’d chosen, the celebrations caused the driver to take a longer, more circuitous route.

I didn’t care. That night London was exactly as Roger had predicted, full of drunkards and wastrels, but it was also filled with rejoicing, and merriment, and purest joy. Laughter and cheer bounced from one close-set house to the next as crowds streamed through the ancient streets. Every corner had its bonfire, with shadowy figures dancing and singing before it, and every wine shop and tavern poured freely, so that all might drink to the health of the king.

I grinned as well, giddy to be part of such an adventure. With reckless joy, I shoved my velvet hood back from my face and leaned from the carriage window to drink in the night like a heady draught.

“Here, my beauty!” A ruddy-cheeked man saluted me from the street as my carriage lumbered by. I waved in return, and he tossed a sprig of white primroses to me, doubtless torn from some nearby garden. Laughing, I caught the flowers and tucked them into the deep neckline of my silk bodice, the stems snug between my breasts.

At last my carriage drew up before a side door of Whitehall Palace. I should explain that at that time, Whitehall was not a single building in the style of most royal palaces, but a rambling assortment of interconnected houses and halls strung along the river’s bank and wandering back toward St. James’s Park. This “palace” had been built over many years, by many different architects and undertakers, and while parts were exceptionally beautiful, such as the last king’s Banqueting House, other portions were shabby, dark, and worn. It was in short more fit for a nest of conies than for the court of the King of England.

Yet Whitehall’s meandering also granted its inhabitants a measure of privacy. With so many entrances and doorways, it was surprisingly easy to slip inside or out without much notice by the palace guards, or anyone else. With all the excitement of the celebration that night, no one saw the equerry meet my carriage and lead me inside and along the maze of ill-lit hallways. Quite suddenly we stopped and entered through one unassuming door, climbed a narrow staircase, and found ourselves in a large, sparsely furnished bedchamber.

The bedstead was old, with bulbous posts carved of some dark, heavy wood, and of a size nearer to a tennis court than an ordinary furnishing for repose—which, of course, amused me, imagining as I did what other sport could take place within such ample boundaries. The hangings had been replaced, new red velvet with golden embroideries and fringes, and the bed linens were likewise new and fresh and pressed. But beyond the bedstead, the chamber was scarcely better than that humble room in Brussels, and sadly I recalled hearing how Cromwell’s vile creatures had carried away most of the art and rich furnishings from Whitehall, like vultures picking a fresh carcass clean.

“Is there anything you require, madam?” the equerry asked, his expression studiously dispassionate.

I glanced again around the room. On a sideboard, there was wine and other drink and the makings of a light cold supper. Because the evening was warm, the windows were open still, and I could hear the rush of the river’s current far below, and see the glow of bonfires all over the city.

“Thank you, no,” I said. “I’ve all I need.”