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Authors: Judith James

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BOOK: The King's Courtesan
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Robert Nichols jerked awake, heart pounding, his body bathed in a cold sweat. Thunder growled in the distance. A steady rain tapped on the windows and pattered against the roof. He groaned. Another damned storm. They’d been rol ing across the county for weeks. Soon the river would flood its banks.

Vestiges of his dream stil lingered. No surprise there. He’d had the same one over and over through the years. It clung to him like a burr. Bolton. The first massacre of the civil war and he al of seventeen years old. Over three quarters of the town murdered, perpetrated by Price Rupert and the Earl of Derby in the royalist cause. He’d witnessed atrocities aplenty on both sides since then. The Lord Protector had been a pitiless man, too.

He rol ed out of bed and pul ed on his boots and a robe, his nerves frayed. The girl’s sobbing stil resonated, wrapped within the wail and sigh of the wind.
Caroline
. She wouldn’t leave him alone. And why should she? Wasn’t this her home, too? Didn’t she have the right to demand retribution?

And who to avenge her but him? Bolton had given him the opportunity to dispatch James Stanley, the first of her murderers. George Stanhope fol owed soon after, cut down in another bloody engagement, though he’d almost lost him to a Yorkshire pikeman during the melee.

Chisholm had been harder. He was a superior officer, an ex-cavalier who’d switched al egiance with the bloody-minded zeal of the newly converted. Now there was just the one remaining. But she must be getting impatient. After al , she had been waiting for over ten years.

He poured himself a tumbler of whiskey, something he’d developed a taste for while on campaign in Ireland. Sleep had deserted him and he was as wound and ready as if he’d only just stepped from the field of battle. He supposed in a way he had.

In his youth life had been simple. He’d believed in family, king and country. He’d believed in himself. A thing was right, or it was wrong. A man honored his word, protected the weak and defended his sovereign and his homeland, but Caro’s death changed everything. When politics and religion tore his homeland in two, it gave him an outlet for the grief and fury he had no other way to express. The civil war became his private one, and he’d used the field of battle to exact his vengeance and focus his rage.

General Walters, his commander and mentor in matters of politics and war, replaced the father who blamed him for his sister’s death, and the idea of an English Republic, with no man above the law, al owed him to pretend he fought for a greater good, easing his guilt and pain. In a strange way, the war, at first at least, had brought him peace. But ten years of fierce fighting had taught him the horrors men justified in the name of some greater good. He had witnessed unspeakable cruelties and been powerless to stop them. He had done things he had once thought unthinkable. Surrounded by cold-blooded men and ideologues, he’d realized he was neither, and the only things he could control were his own actions and his own smal company of men.

By the time he’d walked in on some of them assaulting Elizabeth Walters, he’d begun to doubt if even that were true. They’d been hot on the trail of Wil iam de Veres, a royalist cavalier who played at highwayman and spy for the exiled Stuart king. The Irish campaigns had left his precious honor so sul ied that al that mattered was protecting an old friend’s daughter. He made it his duty to help her, and for a while he’d felt clean again. Those who knew him thought him cold, capable and straight as an arrow. None of them had any idea of the dark forces tearing him apart inside.

He’d learned long ago to guard his secrets and keep his true thoughts to himself.

Now the wars were over and the king restored. Al was forgiven. Men no longer proclaimed themselves for crown or parliament. They were al Englishmen now. He was ready to retire at the ripe old age of thirty-five and settle down to the quiet life of a country gentleman, hoping for some semblance of a normal life and perhaps a little peace.

Yet things were left undone, and he hadn’t earned the right.

There is one who remains.
Passion had deserted him but duty had not. But to find and kil a man on the field of battle or during a campaign was one thing. To find and kil a man who’d fled the country and spent the past ten years in exile was difficult indeed. He wasn’t even sure he had the stomach for it anymore.

For Caroline you do. You must
.

He paced the hal s, his footsteps echoing behind him like some damn ghost.
Cressly
. Once it rang with children’s laughter. He had raced her through these hal s. At times he imagined he could hear her stil . Her merry laughter and the patter of running feet. That was before a group of drunken cavaliers had come and woken something savage. Al that chased him now were the far distant sounds of hoarse shouting, artil ery fire and the stomping of booted feet; the hol ow remnants of troubling dreams. Cressly was al he had left to hold on to, though, even if it was as bare and haunted as he was.
I failed you then, Caroline. But I won’t
fail you again. I haven’t forgotten. I promise you he’ll pay
.

He tossed back what remained of his drink, surprised to note he’d wandered al the way to the library. Flashes of lightning il uminated the room in flickers of silvery light, painting the furniture, fireplace and rows of books in hues of bluish grey and black. They jumped out in stark relief, transforming what was once familiar into a harsh and alien landscape. His image flickered before him, reflected in the window. His sandy hair looked white, his eyes bruised and hol ow, like one of the unseen things his staff believed walked Cressly late at night.
Christ, I even scare myself!

Tossing a log into the fire, he kicked it with a booted foot, waiting for the coals to spark and flame before pouring another tot of whisky and settling into an overstuffed chair.

The fire gave him just enough light to read by. He picked through the mail listlessly, but his gaze sharpened as he neared the bottom of the pile. There were two letters, both notable for the quality of paper and their ornate seals. One was addressed in a fine cursive script, while the other bore the king’s seal. His hand hovered a moment before picking one up. The letter was from Elizabeth Walters.

Elizabeth.
Hugh’s daughter. Many had been the time he’d watched her from afar when he’d been to visit her father. A solemn-faced, shy little girl, motherless and always alone.

He had made it his mission to draw her out, engaging her in conversation and bringing her little gifts. Her father had not disapproved and it brought him pleasure to make her smile. She’d even laughed for him the day he’d set her on his horse. He’d offered her marriage after Cromwel took her lands. He’d owed that much to her father. But she’d refused him, choosing the company of a noted rake and libertine instead, even fol owing him when he was banished from England in disgrace.

He understood why. He was al but hol ow inside. His passion gone. No doubt she had sensed the flaws deep within him; the violence, the coldness, the dark. She had been right to refuse, and he had been wrong to ask.

He wondered why she wrote him now. Had her lover deserted her? Did she need his aid? Would he help her if she did?
Yes. It’s what I promised.
Interest sparked, curious to see what she wanted and how she fared, he broke the seal.

She was happy, healthy and wel , and she wished him the same. She wanted him to be among the first to hear the happy news. Just two months past she’d married Wil iam de Veres in a quiet ceremony in a smal chapel in Maidstone, with only their servants present. They had thought it best to be circumspect, given her new husband’s delicate situation in regards to the king. Things had improved in that regard, however, and she had every reason to expect they’d be free to travel shortly. She thought of her dear friend and rescuer often, and hoped they might visit him at Cressly soon.

He was surprised she had thought to write him, though she had claimed him as a friend, and surprised most of al at how her news stung. He fingered the remaining packet, tracing his thumb back and forth across the royal seal, at a loss as to what it might contain. He was a country gentleman, a minor baronet, hardly the sort to be cal ed to court. Life as a soldier had taught him to be wary of surprises. They seldom resulted in anything good. He broke the seal. Although he steeled himself, nothing could have prepared him for what lay within.

To Captain Sir Robert Nichols, Baronet:
Notwithstanding the general amnesty offered by his most
gracious Majesty Charles II to those who took up arms
against his Father and himself, it has recently come to our
attention that the aid and comfort you provided the traitor
Oliver Cromwell and other enemies of the Crown were of a
more serious nature than originally known. As such, your
title and properties, including but not restricted to the
estate and manor known as Cressly, are herewith forfeit to
the Crown. In the spirit of reconciliation in which the
amnesty was first proclaimed, you are hereby allowed to
keep your commission and any monies derived thereby,
as well as any personal possessions of sentimental value,
including horse and weapons, not to exceed in total worth
the sum of two thousand pounds. You are herewith given
one month to vacate, or be held in contempt of King and
Crown.

Signed this third day of April, 1662, by Chancellor Hyde,
Earl of Clarendon, for His Majesty Charles II, King of
England, Ireland, Scotland and France.

It felt as though the earth had just given way beneath him.

He struggled to contain a dizzying wave of anger and a sickening sense of loss. He knew exactly what had happened. He was on the wrong side of history, and the very things he thought would keep him safe were about to cost him Caroline’s home.

He tossed the chancel or’s letter into the fire, watching as its edges bent and curled. Rivulets of flame reached melting wax and a moment later the paper burst into a molten flower and was gone. Just like that.
Just like
Cressly
.
There is nothing left.
The storm continued to rage outside. He sat where he was, cold and stil , til dawn.

CHAPTER TWO

Whitehall Palace, London

MILES TO THE SOUTH,
in a luxurious chamber overlooking the mighty Thames, a sharp crack of lightning jolted Hope Mathews from a troubled sleep. She pul ed back the gold-embroidered bedspread and sat upright, heart pounding, and looked toward the open casement window. There was no rain yet, but it was close. The air had a metal ic taste, and a low rumble echoed in the distance, approaching from the east.

The fine hairs on the back of her arms stood on end and her breath quickened with excitement. Ever since she could remember, she had loved storms.

She glanced at her royal lover, slumbering peaceful y at her side. It amazed her stil that England’s king had reached so far to find her and place her by his side. Her face softened as he stirred in his sleep, and a deep sadness tore at her heart. Despite his unrepentant promiscuity, it was almost impossible not to fal under his spel . He was her third protecter, but the first one she’d had any real feelings for.

She was half in love with him, which she knew was foolish and forbidden, and she knew he was not in love with her. It hurt, but life was ful of pain and she had survived other wounds. The path that had brought her to the bed of a king was a harsh one, strewn with heartache and bitter betrayal, dashed hopes and danger, and any feelings she had for Charles were not what mattered now.

She was not so foolish anymore as to dream of gal ant knights or trust in anything as fickle and insubstantial as love…but security, independence, freedom…these might be in reach. The king would be married soon. His new queen would arrive on England’s shores any day.

Her world and his were about to change. She had fine clothes and rich jewels, a carriage and servants and a beautiful home on Pal Mal . The problem was, none of it was official and very little of it was hers. It was his money that paid the bil s. She had no suite at the palace, despite the many hours she spent wandering its hal s, no lands or titles, and her beautiful home and servants were lent to her, not given.

The truth was, she was ushered up the river stairs whenever she came to see him, and at the end of her visits, she was sent home the same way. As much as he treated her as friend and confidante in private, her lowly background meant that in public she would always be treated not as a mistress, but as a whore, and what had been so easily given could just as easily be taken away. She needed to ask for what she wanted, no matter her fears of how it might affect what lay between them.

It took her a moment to notice that everything around her had gone quiet.
The calm before the storm.
A lightning bolt flashed, silent in the distance, and a dog barked far away.

She plucked a luxurious oversize robe from the edge of the bed. Lost in its folds, with sleeves rol ed up and hem trailing on the floor behind her, she went to stand by the casement.

The rain came in a sudden hiss, sweeping in great sheets from off the Thames, accompanied by a jagged bolt of lightning that lit the sky, bathing her face and the room in a ghostly glow. Fanciful as a child, eyes sparking with excitement, she loosened her grip on the robe and spread her arms wide, waiting for the clap of thunder she knew would come. The wind whipped her unbound hair and the silken robe bil owed behind her like blue-and-gold embroidered wings.

She imagined herself a magical creature, a goddess perhaps, mistress of an ancient force much larger than herself. One who could bid the rain to rise to her command, and control the ferocity and direction of the wind with a sweep of her arm. One who could effortlessly set the course of her own life, and influence the decisions of a king.

Perhaps this feeling was why she greeted storms with such anticipation. Because she was always remaking herself.

BOOK: The King's Courtesan
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