Winsor, Kathleen (109 page)

That
same morning Frances appeared unexpectedly in her Majesty's apartments. She was
covered from head to foot in a black-velvet cloak and she wore a vizard.
Catherine and all her ladies looked toward the door in surprise as Frances
removed the mask. For a moment she hesitated there and then all at once she ran
forward, dropped to her knees, and taking up the hem of Catherine's garment
touched it to her lips. Catherine spoke quickly to her women, asking them to leave.
They withdrew, to listen at the keyhole.

Then
she reached down to touch the crown of Frances's gleaming head and unexpectedly
Frances burst into tears. She covered her face with her hands. "Oh, Your
Majesty! You must hate me! Can you
ever
forgive me?"

"Frances,
my dear—you mustn't cry so—you'll make your head ache— Here, please— Look at
me, poor child—" Catherine's warm, soft voice still carried a trace of its
Portuguese accent, which gave it an even greater tenderness, and now she placed
one hand gently beneath Frances's chin to raise her head.

Reluctantly
Frances obeyed and for a moment they looked silently at each other. Then her
sobs began again.

"I'm
sorry, Frances," said Catherine. "I'm sorry, for your sake."

"Oh,
it's not for myself I'm crying!" protested Frances. "It's for you!
It's for the unhappiness I've seen in your eyes sometimes when—" She
stopped suddenly, shocked at her boldness, and then the words tumbled on
hastily, as though she could undo in two minutes the wrongs her vanity had
committed for years against this patient little woman.

"Oh,
you must believe me, your Majesty! The only reason I'm going to get married is
so that I may leave the Court! I've never meant to hurt you—never for a moment!
But I've been vain and silly and thoughtless! I've made a fool of myself— but
I've never wronged you, I swear I haven't! He's never been my lover— Oh, say
you believe me—
please
say you believe me!"

She
was holding Catherine's hand hard against the beating pulse in her throat, and
her head was thrown back as her eyes looked up with passionate, begging
intensity. She had always liked Catherine, but she had never realized until now
how
deeply and humbly she admired her, nor how shameful her own behaviour had been.
She had considered the Queen's feelings no more than the crassest of Charles's
mistresses—no more than Barbara Palmer herself.

"I
believe you, Frances. Any young girl would have been flattered. And you've
always been kind and generous. You never used your power as a weapon to hurt
others."

"Oh,
your Majesty!
I
didn't! Truly I didn't! I've never meant to hurt anyone! And your Majesty—I
want you to know—I know
you'll
believe me: Richmond had just come in. We
were sitting talking. There's never been anything indecent between us!"

"Of
course there hasn't, my dear."

Frances
slumped suddenly, her head dropped.
"He'll
never believe me,"
she said softly. "He has no faith—he doesn't believe in anything."

There
were tears now in Catherine's eyes and she shook her head slowly. "Perhaps
he does, Frances. Perhaps he does, more than we think."

Frances
was tired now and despondent. She pressed her lips to the back of Catherine's
hand once more and got slowly to her feet. "I must go now, your
Majesty." They stood looking at each other, real tenderness and affection
on both their faces. "I may never see you again—" Quickly and
impulsively she kissed Catherine on the cheek, and then swirling about she
rushed from the room. Catherine stood and watched her go, smiling a little, one
hand lightly touching her face; the tears spilled off onto her bosom. Three
days later Frances had left Whitehall —she eloped with the Duke of Richmond.

It
was on one cold rainy windy night in February that Buckingham, disguised in a
black wig with his blond eyebrows and mustache blackened, sat across the table
from Dr. Heydon and watched the astrologer's face as he consulted his charts of
stars and moon, intersecting lines and geometrical figures. The room was
lighted dimly by smoking tallow candles that smelt of frying fat, and the wind
blew in gusts down the chimney, making their eyes burn and sending them into
coughing fits.

"Pox
on this damned weather!" muttered the Duke angrily, coughing and covering
his nose and mouth with the long black riding-cloak he wore. And then as Heydon
slowly raised his thin bony face he leaned anxiously across the table.
"What is it! What do you find?"

"What
I dare not speak of, your Grace."

"Bah!
What do I pay you for? Out with it!"

With
an air of being forced against his better judgment, Heydon gave in to the
Duke's determination. "If your Grace insists. I find, then, that he will
die very suddenly on the
fifteenth day of January, two years hence—" He made a dramatic pause and
then, leaning forward, hissed out his next words, while his blue eyes bored
into the Duke's. "And then, by popular demand of the people, your Grace
will succeed to the throne of England for a long and glorious reign. The house
of Villiers is destined to be the greatest royal house in the history of our
nation!"

Buckingham
stared at him, completely transfixed. "By Jesus! It's incredible—and yet—
What else do you find?" he demanded suddenly, eager to know everything.

It
was as though he stood on the edge of some strange land from which it was
possible to look forward into time and discover the shape of things to come.
King Charles scorned such chicanery, saying that even if it were possible to
see into the future it was inconvenient to know one's fate, whether for good or
ill. Well—there were other and cleverer men who knew how to turn a thing to
their own ends.

"How
will he—" Villiers checked himself, afraid of his own phraseology.
"What will be the cause of so great a tragedy?"

Heydon
glanced at his charts once more, as though for reassurance, and when he
answered his voice was a mere whisper: "Unfortunately—the stars have it
his Majesty will die by poison—secretly administered."

"Poison!"

The
Duke sat back, staring into the flames of the sea-coal fire, drumming his
knuckles on the table-top, one eyebrow raised in contemplation. Charles Stuart
to die of poison, secretly administered, and he, George Villiers, to succeed by
popular demand to the throne of England. The more he thought about it the less
incredible it seemed.

He
was startled out of his reverie by a sudden sharp impatient rapping at the
door. "What's that! Were you expecting someone?"

"I
had forgotten, your Grace," whispered Heydon. "My Lady Castlemaine
had an appointment with me at this hour."

"Barbara!
Has she been here before?"

"Only
twice, your Grace. The last time three years since." The rapping was
repeated, loud and insistent, and a little angry too.

Buckingham
got up quickly and went toward the door of the next room. "I'll wait in
here until she's gone. Get rid of her as soon as possible—and as you value your
nose don't let her know I'm here."

Heydon
nodded his head and whisked the many papers and charts which concerned Charles
II's melancholy future off the table and into a drawer. As the Duke disappeared
he went to answer the door. Barbara entered the room on a gust of wind; her
face was entirely covered by a black-velvet vizard and there was a
silver-blonde wig over her red hair.

"God's
eyeballs! What kept you so long? Have you got a wench in here?"

She
tossed her black-beaver muff onto a chair, untied the hood she wore and flung
off both it and the cloak. Then going to the fire to warm herself she nudged
aside with her foot the thin mongrel dog that slept uneasily there, and which
now looked up at her with injured resentment.

"God
in Heaven!" she exclaimed, rubbing her hands together and shivering.
"But I swear it's the coldest night known to man! It's blowing a
mackerel-gale!"

"May
I offer your Ladyship a glass of ale?"

"By
all means!"

Heydon
went to a dresser and poured out a glassful, saying with a sideways glance at
her: "I regret that I cannot offer your Ladyship something more
delicate—claret or champagne—but it is my misfortune that too many of my
patrons are remiss in their debts." He shrugged. "They say that comes
of serving the rich."

"Still
plucking at the same string, eh?" She took the glass from him and began to
swallow thirstily, feeling the sour ale slide down and begin to warm her
entrails. "I have a matter of the utmost importance I want you to settle
for me. It's imperative that you make no mistake!"

"Was
not my last prognostication correct, your Ladyship?"

He
was leaning forward slightly from the waist, his big-jointed hands clasped
before him, obsequiousness as well as an unctuous demand for praise in his
voice and manner.

Barbara
gave him an impatient glance over the rim of her glass. The Queen had been her
enemy then. Now she was, without knowing it, as fast an ally as she had.
Barbara Palmer, least of all, wanted to see another and possibly handsome and
determined woman married to Charles Stuart; if anything should ever happen to
Catherine her own days at Whitehall were done and she knew it.

"Don't
trouble yourself to remember so much!" she told him sharply. "In your
business it's a bad habit. I understand you've been giving some useful advice
to my cousin."

"Your
cousin, madame?" Heydon was blandly innocent.

"Don't
be stupid! You know who I mean! Buckingham, of course!"

Heydon
spread his hands in protest. "Oh, but madame—I assure you that you have
been misinformed. His Grace was so kind as to release me from Newgate when I
was carried there by reason of my debts—which I incurred because of the
reluctance of my patrons to meet their charges. But he has done me no further
honour since that time."

"Nonsense!"
Barbara drained the glass and set it onto the cluttered mantelpiece.
"Buckingham never threw a dog a bone without expecting something for it. I
just wanted you to know that I know he comes here, so you'll not be tempted to
tell him of my visit. I have as much evidence on him as he can get on me."

Heydon,
made more adamant by the knowledge that the
gentleman under discussion was
listening in the next room, refused to surrender. "I protest,
madame—someone's been jesting with your Ladyship. I swear I've not laid eyes on
his Grace from that time to this."

"You
lie like a son of a whore! Well—I hope you'll be as chary of my secrets as you
are of his. But enough of that. Here's what I came for: I have reason to think
I'm with child again—and I want you to tell me where I may fix the blame. It's most
important that I know."

Heydon
widened his eyes and swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing convulsively in
his skinny neck. Gadzooks! This was beyond anything! When a father had much ado
to tell his own child, how could a completely disinterested person be expected
to know it?

But
Heydon's wide reputation had not been built on refusal to answer questions. And
now he took up the thick-lensed, green eye-glasses which he imagined gave him a
more studious air, pinched them on the end of his nose, and both he and Barbara
sat down. He began to pore intently over the charts on the table, meanwhile
writing some mumbo-jumbo in a sort of bastard Latin and drawing a few moons and
stars intersected by several straight lines.

From
time to time he cleared his throat and said, "Hmmmm."

Barbara
watched him, leaning forward, and while he worked she nervously twisted a great
diamond she wore on her left hand to cover her wedding-band—for she and Roger
Palmer had long since agreed to have nothing more to do with each other.

At
last Heydon cleared his throat a final time and looked across at her, seeing
her white face through the blur of smoke from the tallow candles.
"Madame—I must ask your entire confidence in this matter, or I can proceed
no farther."

"Very
well. What d'you want to know?"

"I
pray your Ladyship not to take offense—but I must have the names of those
gentlemen who may be considered as having had a possible share in your
misfortune."

Barbara
frowned a little. "You'll be discreet?"

"Naturally,
madame. Discretion is my stock in trade."

"Well,
then— First, there's the King—whom I hope you'll find responsible, for if I can
convince him it may save me a great deal of trouble. And then—" She
hesitated.

"And
then?" prompted Heydon.

"Pox
on you! Give me leave to think a moment. Then there was James Hamilton, and
Charles Hart—but don't count him for he's a mean fellow, a mere actor,
and—"

At
that instant there was a sudden sharp sound halfway between a laugh and a
choked cough, and Barbara started to her feet. " 'Sdeath! What was
that!"

Heydon
had likewise jumped. "Only my dog, madame. Dreaming in his sleep."
They both looked at the mongrel, twitching his muscles before the fire in some
nocturnal chase.