Royal Harlot (21 page)

“Set those flowers there, by the wall,” I said one night early in July, pointing the way as the two hired men trooped down the alley with buckets of roses and daisies from the market. Roger and I had moved into this house too late in the planting season for a gardener to have much effect, so I was forced to rely on potted flowers to make our small yard sufficiently engaging for guests. “Higher, if you please, to give us privacy. I don’t want strangers peeping at us, you know.”

“Mistress Palmer!” Tom, our household’s single footman, came trotting toward me. “The boy from th’ cookshop’s come with the venison pies.”

“Already?” I sighed, perplexed. Though our house was equipped with the luxury of its own bake oven, neither I nor our kitchen maid had the experience necessary to utilize it for more than warming food purchased elsewhere. Besides, the evening was already warm enough without adding more heat from the oven, jutting out from the kitchen as it did. To my joy, I’d found a nearby baker who made most excellent pies of fowl, venison, and eels, when he could get them fresh from the river, and I’d placed a large order with him for tonight. They’d be the centerpiece of my small collation—gentlemen always do love a savory pie—though I hadn’t counted on the pasties arriving so soon.

“Very well, then,” I said, striving to sound as if I was hostess to such gatherings every day. “Have the pies set on the long table in the kitchen, and mind that Deborah covers them with fresh cloths to keep the flies away.”

“Flies away from what?” Roger asked, appearing in the garden seemingly from nowhere. At this hour, he should have been engaged in his parliamentary affairs, and not here vexing me. “Barbara, who are these persons in our garden?”

“Beg pardon, Mistress Palmer,” Tom said, hurrying back from the kitchen. “But Deborah says the man’s here with th’ sillery, and she would know whether to put it in th’ cellar to keep it cool, or above stairs, for convenience.”

“Sillery!” Roger cried. “Since when do we keep French wines in this house, either in the cellar or otherwise?”

“Hush, Roger, please,” I said. “Tom, have the man put the wine in the cellar for now.”

But Roger refused to be hushed. “Roses in pots, lanterns hung from the trees, new cushions on the benches and chairs! Barbara, what is all this?”

“It’s for tonight, Roger, as you know well, or you would if you did but listen to me,” I said, retying my apron tapes more closely about my waist. “We’re expecting a small group for music, and because the weather’s been so fair I thought to have it here.”

“A small group, Barbara? Here?” He scowled and shook his head, his flat-brimmed gray hat bobbing back and forth. “Forgive me, but I do not recall hearing of this at all. Who are these guests of yours?”

“They’re
our
guests, Roger.” I took him by the arm to lead him away from the flower-men to the far end of the yard, and lowered my voice, too, so they would not overhear. “His Majesty the King, Their Graces the Duke of York and the Duke of Gloucester, and perhaps several other acquaintances I’ve made at court. I know I’ve told you.”

Roger drew back. “The king and the princes in my house?”

“In
our
house,” I answered firmly, though an excellent case could be made for the house being more properly mine by rights. “It will be a considerable honor, you know, and if you could make yourself pleasant and agreeable in company, I’m sure it will go far to helping your place in the government.”

“What will help me advance is hard work,” he grumbled, “which is far more than this court seems to do. Every night while I must toil, you’re among them at Whitehall, drinking and gaming and dancing and—”

“Do you deny that His Majesty works as hard as his ministers?” I demanded, defending the king instead of myself. “Does he ever shirk his meetings with them, or excuse himself from the call of a foreign diplomat? Hasn’t he listened to every single petitioner seeking reparation from him, listened with gravity and consideration?”

“That is true,” Roger admitted grudgingly. “His Majesty has demonstrated a most prodigious gift for the work of his position, and is always among the first to begin at Whitehall, no matter how late he retired to his bed the night before.”

“
Completely
true,” I said, perhaps more frankly than I should have volunteered. I’d seen for myself how little sleep Charles—for so I now thought of him in my head; I’d never dare presume to address him so informally, of course, no matter how intimate our connection, and never would—seemed to require. Not only did he devote long hours to the work of sorting his country’s affairs, but he also continued his regimen of long, fast walks through St. James’s Park, riding as fast as any jockey, swimming in the river, and vigorous games of tennis.

Yet each night he was still ready for a long evening of dancing and gaming, in addition to the frequent retreats to his private quarters with me, sometimes as often as three diverse times in a single evening, if he was in the proper humor. “So why, then, do you begrudge him his diversions at the end of the day?”

“It’s not His Majesty I begrudge his diversions, Barbara, but you,” he said. “There’s no question that His Majesty is the first gentleman of the realm, but the same cannot be said about those he chooses for his courtiers. Why you must spend so much time at the palace among those drunkards and whoremongers—”

“Because that is where preferment begins, Roger,” I said vehemently. “Toiling away with your pen in your hand in a dark closet at the Parliament House will never bring you to favor, but each time I am seen by the king marks another time he recalls your name as well. Were you not among the first to be repaid for what you’d loaned to the royal cause?”

“Yes,” he admitted heavily. “Yes, I was.”

“Well, then, you understand.” Mollified, I drew a small paper fan from my apron’s pocket to fan my face. I’d found this summer deucedly warm, or maybe it was simply the effect of keeping pace with Charles. I was young, of rosy health, but still I found I needed to crawl back to my bed here in King Street to sleep whenever I could. “Now, I must go see if Deborah has—”

“I don’t see why York must be included tonight.” Roger’s face was flushed an angry red. “He has no influence over our station.”

“His Highness?” I asked, unsure of what he meant. The Duke of York was the middle Stuart brother, full-lipped and fair where the other two were dark, and stolid to a fault. He was said to have fought valiantly during the wars, but I found him so dull and dogged as to seem slow-witted. “Why shouldn’t the duke be invited? To be sure, I’d hear more conversation from one of those pots of flowers than from him, but that—”

“Don’t dissemble, Barbara,” he said sharply. “I’ve heard what’s being said, how his name is often linked to yours.”

“Mine with the duke’s?” I tipped back my head and laughed, not only with relief but with true merriment. To confound the gossips, Charles would often be sure to have one or the other of his brothers about him when he was with me, but I’d never thought such a ruse would fool anyone, let alone my husband. “Oh, Roger, please.”

“If it’s so ludicrous, then swear to me that you’ve never encouraged him,” Roger ordered. “Will you swear it?”

“I’ll gladly swear on any holy book you please,” I said, laughing still. “I shall never, never, never be tempted by the Duke of York.”

“No?” he asked again, his gaze fair scrubbing my face for the truth. “You are sure?”

“I told you I’d swear, didn’t I?” I rolled my gaze toward the heavens. “Besides, if you’d paid heed to gossip and scandal, then you’d know that His Highness is already so far in the muck with the lord chancellor’s daughter that he’d have no time to squander upon me.”

“The lord chancellor’s daughter? Anne Hyde?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, positively licking my lips to be able to repeat such a juicy tale, bringing shame as it did upon my old nemesis Sir Edward Hyde. “They say she first caught the duke’s eye at the Hague, where Anne was maid of honor to the Princess Mary of Orange—his eye, and his cock, for they say now her belly’s swelled large as a hayrick with the duke’s brat.”

Roger looked pained. “Barbara, please. Such vulgar talk belongs in the mouth of some foul doxy, not a lady of the court.”

“Why not speak plain, when what Anne and the duke have done is plain enough?” I laughed again, unperturbed by his criticism. No one minced or parsed their words at Whitehall; to be overnice in one’s speech was to be a toss-back to the prudish days of the Protectorate. “No one can fathom why the duke would choose such a woeful, pasty creature as Anne, either. She favors her father the lord chancellor, you know, and is every bit as disagreeable and gouty as he. It’s a marvel anyone’s been able to tell she’s with child, she’s that dreadfully fat. And as for her face, why—”

“You are certain York has no interest in you?”

“Yes.” I smiled with confidence, for this was the truth and easy to face without any bluster. I could not tell if Roger yet knew of my dalliance with the king, or if he’d even suspected it. For all I could tell, he might be perfectly aware of his cuckold’s horns, yet had decided the rewards of compliance were worth the effort of looking away and feigning ignorance. Yet though I much preferred Charles’s attentions to my husband’s—what woman wouldn’t choose a king, I ask you?—I didn’t neglect my duty toward Roger, either, and he had my attention whenever he wished it. By my lights, he’d no reason whatsoever for complaint.

I furled my fan and tapped him lightly on the arm with it. “If you still have your doubts, then be sure to attend this night,” I said, smiling winningly. “You’ll see for yourself you’ve nothing to fear regarding me and His Highness.”

“Perhaps later, Barbara,” he said gruffly and cleared his throat, shifting from one foot to the other. “I’m set to dine with two gentlemen down from Windsor. You can tell me all tomorrow.”

His glance had strayed from my face to my breasts, for I’d left off a kerchief on account of the heat, leaving nearly all exposed to his view. He cleared his throat again, a sound I could read as clearly as mariners read the stars in the sky. Aha, so he’d be expecting to conclude his night carousing about the town with the gentlemen from Windsor, and I’d do well to be there waiting when he finally came home.

Or perhaps not, if I eased him now.

“Might you linger for a bit, Roger?” I asked in a honey’d whisper, standing close to him so the servants wouldn’t be able to see me slip my hand inside the front of his breeches to dandle his cods. “I’m done with the preparations here, and His Majesty and the others won’t arrive for some hours. Surely those fine gentlemen from Windsor could wait as well.”

He groaned and moved against my hand, and I knew I had him when he kissed me with the hunger of a famished man.

“You’re the very devil, Barbara,” he muttered, not bothering to hide his despair. “How could I ever refuse you, eh? How could I ever refuse?”

 
As the two fiddlers and the flute player finished the jig, I gave one final turn on my toes, and with my skirts held wide I sank to the ground in a deep curtsey, the king’s dogs yipping and prancing around me with excitement. The three brothers applauded and cheered, and Henry, His Highness the Duke of Gloucester, came bounding up to raise me back to my exhausted feet.

“Well done, madam, well done,” he said, giving me a heartfelt embrace to show he’d appreciated my little dance. By then the hour was well past midnight, and we’d all drunk so freely of the sillery and other wines that the boundaries between our ranks had faded quite away.

Besides, it was easy to be familiar with Henry. He was much like Charles, with dark hair and eyes, and a dashing, gallant manner born of his years at the French court with his mother. He was my age, too, within a year of twenty, and with him I felt at liberty to act with the freedom of our youth.

While the fiddlers continued to play, I now looped my arm around his waist and he did the same to me as we stumbled and laughed across the grass toward where the king and the Duke of York still sat. In the guise of supporting me, I felt Henry’s hand slide purposely lower than it should across my rump, but all I did was laugh, and shove him gently away. As pleasing as Henry was to me, I knew my place was with his older brother, and as lightly as I could, I perched upon the king’s waiting knee.

“Oh, come now, Barbara, don’t be shy with me,” Charles said, laughing himself as he pulled me against him. I yelped with surprise, but quickly settled against his chest, a place that gave me special delight. Sitting there, I felt small and protected, like a tiny girl upon her father’s lap, a memory I sadly could never claim for myself. But I also liked the womanly intimacy of such a posture, too, sprawled across my lover’s long, well-muscled legs and knowing his cock lay beneath me. He nuzzled against the side of my throat, his mustache bristling against my skin, and I turned my face to kiss him even as he slipped his hand down into my bodice to fill his palm with my breast.

“You’ve an audience, Charles,” James said, watching us critically over his goblet. When we looked up, he raised the wine toward the next house, as if in a silent salute. I could just make out the shadowy form of my neighbor, his long face pressed to the window glass to gawk at us.

“That’s my own private audience,” I said with a shrug. “My neighbor Admiral Lord Sandwich and likely his secretary Mr. Pepys beside him, pretending that they’re toiling late upon the business of His Majesty’s navy. It doesn’t signify to me. Let them look their fill, if it pleases them so mightily.”

Henry climbed up onto a bench the better to peer back, cleverly cocking his hand over his eyes like a foretopman on one of the admiral’s ships. “Aren’t you afraid they’ll tattle to your husband?”

“No,” I said, and emboldened by the sillery, I wasn’t. “My husband already knows I’m entertaining you here this night.”

“Hah,” James said scornfully, reaching for the bottle on the grass beside him to refill his goblet. “That’s a more forgiving husband than I’d ever be.”