Winsor, Kathleen (133 page)

Annoyed
with the King, Buckingham avoided Whitehall for several days and spent his time
with the rich City men he knew. But he soon grew bored with that too. He had
nothing but contempt for these fat credulous men who believed whatever he told
them, and because it was almost second nature to him he began to hatch another
plot.

For
the past few years the Duke had been hiring several different lodgings
scattered about in various parts of the town, and he went to one or another as
the mood took him. It was for greater convenience and secrecy in his political
machinations, that he kept a trunkful of disguises and rented a dozen different
apartments.

In
Idle Lane, just off Thames Street and hard by the Tower, a lodging-house had
been left standing after the Fire had swept through. It now had for company
three others, still in the process of building, another completed the year
before and rented out to an ale-house keeper to entertain the workmen, and one
other which had collapsed when half built because of bad mortar and bricks.
(This was a common occurrence all over the City where new houses were going
up.) The busy Thames ran nearby, close enough that the shouts of the bargemen
and the girls hawking oysters in the street could be heard. Buckingham had
rented three rooms on the fourth floor, using one of the fictitious names which
it amused him to invent; this time he was Er Illingworth.

The
Duke, wearing a Turkish dressing-gown and turban, a pair of slippers with
turned-up toes, lay stretched out sound asleep on the long straight-backed
settle near the fireplace where sea-coals had burnt down to a glowing red.
There was no air in the room and very little light, for it was after dark and
he had been asleep since mid-day.

A
knock sounded at the door and then was repeated as Buckingham's snore continued
to rattle through the room. At the fourth knock he sat up with a start, his
face flushed and swollen with sleep, gave his head a shake and got up. But he
did not throw back the bolt before he had asked who it was.

A
fat short red-faced priest stood in the doorway, dressed in robe and sandals, a
cowl over his tonsured head, a prayer-book in his hands.

"Good
evening to you, Father Scroope."

"Good
evening, sir." The priest was out of breath from hurrying up the stairs.
"I came with all haste—but I was at
her Majesty's evening devotions when I
got the message." His eyes looked over the Duke's shoulder and into the
half-lighted bedroom beyond. "Where is the patient? There is no time to be
lost—"

Behind
him Buckingham closed the door, quietly turned the key in the lock and slipped
it into the pocket of his dressing-gown. "There is no one sick here,
Father Scroope."

The
priest turned and looked at him in surprise. "No one sick? But I was
told—the messenger told me that a man was dying—"

He
sat down in a high-backed chair while the Duke poured
two glassfuls
of canary wine, handed one to his guest, and then pulled up another chair so
that they sat face to face.

"I
wanted you to come as quickly as possible—so I sent a message that there was
sickness. Don't you know me now, Father?"

Father
Scroope, who had already drunk down his wine and was holding the glass in his
pudgy pink hands, peered closely at Buckingham, and slow recognition came to
his face.

"Why—your
Grace!"

"None
other."

"Forgive
me, sir! I vow you're so altered by your undress I didn't recognize you—and the
light, of course, is dim—" he added apologetically.

Buckingham
smiled, reached for the wine-bottle and filled both their glasses again.
"You say you've just come from her Majesty's devotions?"

"Yes,
your Grace. Her Majesty has learnt a great many new habits, but never to retire
without evening prayers for which God be thanked," he added, with a pious
roll of his eyes.

"You
hear her Majesty's confessions, as well, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Sometimes,
yes, your Grace."

Buckingham
laughed shortly. "Much
she
can have to confess, I imagine! What
could her sins be—coveting a new gown or gambling on Sunday? Or perhaps wishing
that his Majesty's child was in her own belly and not in some other
woman's?"

"Ah,
well, my lord—poor lady. That's but a venial sin. And I fear we all of us
commit it with her." Father Scroope drained his glass again, and again the
Duke filled it.

"But
wishing won't cure the matter. The fact remains she's barren—and always will
be."

"She's
been with child, I'm convinced. But there's somewhat amiss keeps her from
carrying to term."

"And
always will. His Majesty will never have a legitimate heir by Catherine of
Braganza. And if the throne goes to York the country's ruined." Father
Scroope widened his popped blue eyes at this, for York's Catholic sympathies
were notorious, and Buckingham was well known for his hatred of the Church. But
the Duke said quickly, "Not because of his religion, Father. The case is
more serious far than that. His Highness has not
the means to govern the country.
It would fall into civil war again within six months if he came to the
throne." The Duke's face was passionately serious. He leaned forward, the
hand holding his wine-glass clutched on his knee, pointing with the forefinger
of the other at Father Scroope's bewildered round face. "It's your duty,
Father, as you love England and the Stuarts, to lend me aid in what I
propose—and I may as well tell you frankly that his Majesty is behind me in
this but prefers, for obvious reasons, to remain out of it altogether."

"You've
mistaken your man, your Grace! I can't take action against her Majesty—no
matter
who's
behind it!" Father Scroope was scared; even his plump
cheeks quivered. He began to get out of his seat but Buckingham, with a gentle
but persuasive hand, pressed him back again.

"Not
so hasty, Father, I pray you! Hear me out first. And remember this—you owe your
first allegiance to your King!" As he spoke Buckingham looked like all the
magnificent selfless patriots of history, and Father Scroope, thoroughly
impressed, sat down again. "We do not intend to harm her Majesty in any
way at all—make yourself easy on that score. But for the sake of England, the
King, my master, and I have devised a plan for getting him another wife. This
he can do and have an heir for England in a year's time if her Majesty will
agree to return to the fife she once lived and enjoyed—the life of the
cloister."

"I
don't think I quite understand your Grace's meaning—"

"Very
well, then, this is it: You're her confessor. You talk to her in private. If
you can persuade her to make a voluntary retirement from the world, go back to
Portugal and enter a nunnery, his Majesty will be free to marry again. And if
you succeed," continued Buckingham hastily, as Father Scroope opened his
mouth again to speak, "his Majesty will endow you with a fortune great enough
to support you in any style whatever throughout the rest of your life. And to
begin—" Buckingham got up and once more he went to take a leather bag from
the mantelpiece and handed it to Father Scroope. "You'll find a thousand
pound in there—and that's only a beginning." Father Scroope took it,
feeling the weight of the money, but politely restrained himself from opening
it. "Well, Father—what's your answer?"

For
a long moment the priest hesitated, thoughtful, worried, unable to make up his
mind. "His Majesty wants this done?" he repeated, dubiously.

"He
does. Sure, now, Father, you don't think I'd dare act in so important a matter
without his Majesty's instructions?"

"Certainly
not, your Grace." Father Scroope got to his feet, placing the wine-glass
on a nearby table-top. "Well—I'll try what influence I can have, your
Grace." He frowned, shot a quick glance across at the Duke. "But
suppose I fail? These gentle little women are sometimes stubborn."

Buckingham
smiled. "You won't fail, Father Scroope. I'm sure you won't. For if you do
you'll get no more money—and
you'll give all of that back. And needless to say,
if this conversation is ever repeated it will go hard with you." The
relentless glitter in his eyes suggested more than he said.

"Oh,
I'm altogether discreet, your Grace!" protested Father Scroope. "You
may trust me!"

"Good!
Well—go along now. And when you have information send it to me by some random
boy you find on the street Write in it that my new cloth-of-silver suit is
finished and sign it—Let me see—" The Duke paused, stroking his mustache.
Finally he smiled. "Sign it Israel Whoremaster."

"Israel!
Whoremaster! Your Grace has a nimble wit!"

"Come
now, you old villain," said the Duke, strolling beside him toward the
door. "Don't try to wheedle me. I've heard tales aplenty about you and
your girls."

But
Father Scroope did not think the jest funny. He looked both angry and worried.
"I protest, your Grace! They're all lies! Damned lies! I'd be ruined if
such a tale gained general credit. Her Majesty wouldn't retain me an hour's
time!"

"Very
well, then," drawled the Duke, bored. "Keep your virginity if you
like. Only don't miscarry in this business. I'll expect word from
you within the
week."

"A
little longer, your Grace—"

"Ten
days, then."

He
closed the door on Father Scroope and slammed the bolt.

Amber
stood listening to Father Scroope.

At
the price of fifteen hundred pounds he had just sold her Buckingham's plot
against the Queen. For, whether his Majesty was in it or wasn't, he had no
intention of talking himself out of a comfortable place at Court—if the Queen
went into a nunnery he would be left drifting and unprotected in an England
hostile to the Catholics. Charles, it was true, had tried repeatedly to gain
toleration for all religions, but Parliament hated that policy and Parliament
could force obedience by refusing to grant money.

"Good
Lord!" she whispered in horror. "The devil's going to be the ruin of
us all! Have you talked to her?"

Father
Scroope closed his fat lips smugly, crossed his hands on his stomach and slowly
shook his head. "Not one word, your Ladyship. Not so much as one word. And
I was alone with her Majesty in the confessional booth today, too."

"And
you'd better not speak one word, either! You know what would happen to you if
her Majesty left! Oh, damn that varlet! I wish someone would slit his
throat!"

"Will
you tell her Majesty?"

"Tell
her? Of course I'll tell her! Maybe he's paid someone else to talk to her
already!"

"I
don't think so, madame. Though I doubt not he will if he finds he's failed with
me."

At
that moment Nan entered softly and beckoned to Amber. Amber
started out.
"Come on," she said to him. "The way's clear. You can go
now."

They
left the room and went into a very narrow dark corridor. The two women knew their
way but Father Scroope had to feel with his hands along the wall until they
came to a door. There Amber and the Father waited back out of sight while Nan
opened the door, peeked, and then motioned for them to follow her. Outside they
could hear the quiet washing of the river as it came up into the reeds and
rushes which grew along the banks. Amber had the same trouble everyone else did
who lived on the side of the Palace next to the water; the lower floor of her
apartments was sometimes invaded by the overflowing Thames.