He understood why. He was all but hollow 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 well, 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 William de Veres in a quiet ceremony in a small 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 all 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 called 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 chancellor’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 still, till 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 pulled 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 metallic 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 peacefully at her side. It amazed her still 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 fall under his spell. 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 full 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 gallant 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 Pall Mall. The problem was, none of it was official and very little of it was hers. It was his money that paid the bills. She had no suite at the palace, despite the many hours she spent wandering its halls, 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 rolled 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 billowed 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. Always aching to be reborn as something new.
“God’s blood, woman! What madness are you about now? I swear you traipse about my palace opening every bloody window in your path. A storm is upon us. Climb back into bed before we are awash.”
She tumbled in an instant, from mighty goddess to lowly mortal. But not so low as that. I am a royal courtesan. And there is power in that, too. Though she turned to look at him, she made no move to obey. He had flung off the covers and lay stretched in all his glory. Her lips pursed in a half smile and she absently twirled a strand of hair as her eyes boldly traveled his length. There are far worse things than being mistress to Charles Stuart.
Her eyes widened and she gave an exaggerated gasp as he leapt from the bed and strode purposely in her direction.
“Ods fish, you’ve even pilfered my clothes! And what are you grinning at, eh? If you’ll not mind me, my dear. I shall have to take you forcibly in hand.” Growling, he reached for her but she screamed and ducked, eluding his grasp, circling to the far side of the bed, agile and quick as a cat. It was his robe that tripped her up, stopping her short when she stepped on a trailing hem. As she careened sideways he caught her firmly by the front of the oversize garment and set her back on her feet. A sudden gust swirled through the chamber and the fire danced to life, casting