The memory of that day tumbled over and over now in her mind.
Rose, the sister who cared for her, stole for her, who had become a prostitute to survive. Rose was the one who shared her fleeting memories of a father long away. Only a few memories of him lingered—the scent of ale and sweat, the sound of boot heels clicking across floor tiles when she was meant to be asleep. Mainly, she saw his eyes, happy, smiling eyes, sweet and creamy brown, offering a protection she had not found since. Like their father, Rose had not returned. Her bones aching, Nell sank onto the little bed. She lay down and curled her legs up to her chest surrounded by damp, cold walls and a low, sagging ceiling. As slumber began to take over, she was no longer thinking of Helena Gwynne, or even of Rose, but rather of the tall stranger standing in front of the King’s Theater, and wondering if he had actually eaten her orange.
“He really should not be allowed to go out among the masses like that,” said George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham, behind a raised, jeweled hand that glinted in the light from the leaded windows, with their diamond-colored glass. “It does depress him so.”
The fires in every room were lit against the pervasive dampness. The men—courtiers, ambassadors, and servants—stood collected in the king’s private audience chamber at Whitehall Palace, surrounded by those well-enough placed in society to enter this private chamber to plead for the king’s help. Men in velvet coats, with laces and ribbons, hats plumed with great ostrich feathers, their shoes ornamented with jeweled buckles, waited patiently to be heard.
“It is his past, of course, that did it to him,” the king’s brother, the Duke of York, quietly observed. “All of those miserable years of poverty in exile. There is some part of him, heaven help us, that feels like one of those low wretches himself, and is ever drawn to them.”
Every day since the fire had begun, the king had ridden his horse headlong into the thick and dangerous warren of burned-out streets. He had given out coins, and passed buckets of water along a human chain, until his hands were chapped, and his clothes were as soot stained and sweat drenched as those of who had no idea who he was.
“My Lord of Buckingham,” the king called out deeply across the perfumed and mirrored chasm. “You may approach.”
The duke made a sweeping bow before a very different king than his companion of earlier that morning. Charles II sat on a gilded throne beneath a richly textured canopy of red satin. He wore official Garter robes, billowing ivory satin, crimson velvet sewn with gold thread, and tall lace cravat, and his long, muscled legs were crossed at the ankles. His hands played restlessly at the lion’s head fixtures on the arms of his throne. The man he had been that morning was all but hidden now by luxury and obligation. A long, jet-black wig, perfectly matched to his mustache, now adorned his head and trailed down meeting the shoulders of a rich cape. And across his chest lay a heavy bronze medal once belonging to his father, which he often liked to wear when he did the business of his people here in Charles I’s favorite public room.
“Your Majesty,” flattered the king’s oldest and closest friend, rising from the exaggerated bow.
“So, George, have you spoken to Charles Hart? Will the players be ready?”
“He tells me the theater can open again when you decree.”
“And that young girl today in front of the theater?”
“The orange girl?”
“The very one. What was her name?”
“I’m afraid a frivolous recollection such as that has slipped my mind.”
Another man took two small steps forward. “You will pardon me, I pray, but I remember it, as it was a thing of consequence to Your Majesty.”
Everyone facing their sovereign, including Buckingham, pivoted around, heavy satin rustling, plumes bobbing, to see the Earl of Arlington, one of the king’s other companions earlier that day. Arlington, the secretary of state, a tight-faced little man, was unscrupulously ambitious, with an uncanny ability to know when to pounce. “It was Gwynne, Your Majesty. Her name was Nell Gwynne.”
“So it was indeed.” Charles’s grin was broad. He enjoyed seeing George bested for the sheer pleasure of what his old friend would do or say next, as it happened so rarely. He knew the two men loathed each other. “A selfless soul in one so poor.”
“A calculating soul is more like it,” George snarled, beneath his breath.
“Coming from you, George, there is a certain element of irony when one speaks of calculation,” said the king.
“Your Majesty, I am calculating enough to know a conniving wench when I see one. With those doleful green eyes of hers, she ought to be selling her wares on the stage of the King’s House instead of in front of it.”
“Arlington?” Charles glanced at the other man. “I trust you can find out about her. Some need she might have, or rather, should I say, the most pressing need among the many. I find that I should like to do something for her.”
“It is done, Your Majesty,”
The king stood then as Arlington bent into an overaffected, sweeping bow.
The gilded doors were pulled back by two liveried Yeomen of the Guard. A tall, elegant woman swept past in a rustle and sway of blue satin skirts, hoops, and petticoats. Lady Castlemaine had a large entourage behind her, and the fabric of their gowns was a sudden, rich kaleidoscope of color and rustling fabric. All of the king’s courtiers bowed to her, and to the finely dressed ladies. Her absolute power over Charles demanded it. Or at least the power she had held for eight years had begot a pattern between them that had held. But now her histrionics and bold manipulation had begun to weary the king. He watched her glide forward, honey-colored hair, smooth skin, and he thought how surprisingly little he felt, looking at her now. The conversation ceased as she approached the throne. Facing her lover, Barbara Palmer made a slight, perfunctory curtsy. It was only just enough.
“Your Majesty.”
“My Lady Castlemaine knows this is the hour of my audience—”
“Indeed, I do,” she cut him off breezily. “But my need to speak with you dictates my actions.”
Charles’s anger flared. He thought of banishing her from his presence chamber altogether, to remind her of her place. But she could be dangerous. She had proven that too many times. And there were the children to consider. She was not above using them as weapons, just as she had once used his heart when she had still mattered to him.
The courtiers fell into an immediate and collectively reverent bow as Charles took her arm and they began to walk away from the dais, and toward the tall, gilded and heavily carved double doors at the opposite end of the room.
“Lady Castlemaine and I shall walk,” he announced.
Amid the low grumbling of subjects who had waited hours for one moment to petition their sovereign, Charles and Barbara left the vaulted, echoing chamber. The shoes he wore clicked across the rich inlaid floor; they were brocade and ornamented by costly buckles of Spanish silver, nothing at all like the simple soot-caked buskins in which he had trod through debris only hours ago. But this was another part of his life entirely, as was she.
“Very well,” he said coldly, once they were alone. “What is it this time?”
“I require additional funds, Charles.”
“Additional? God’s blood, woman, I have already given you half of my own purse!”
“Three-fourths would please me better.”
In spite of how ridiculous she sounded, he knew she was deadly serious. They continued down a long corridor, with a high vaulted ceiling painted by Rubens to represent Peace and Plenty. It had been commissioned by his grandfather James I. Their shoe heels echoing was the only sound for what felt to Charles like an eternity, amid the ghosts of all the kings who had gone before him in these rooms, men who had not dallied quite so much with foolish women.
“What you ask is impossible.”
Her expression now held a spark of pleading. “Tell me, then, how can I be expected to clothe and feed all of our children in proper elegance, if you ins
ist on being such a spendthrift?”
Of course, she had never paid for any of that herself. The care of His Majesty’s children had always been costs of the Crown. But this was Barbara’s way of tightening the noose. She was aware of his interest in Lady Stuart. In his zealousness to make her his new mistress, Charles had been indiscreet. Barbara was about to make him pay for that, as she just had warned by embarrassing him in front of his court.
“And pray tell me, my Lady Castlemaine, why this could not have waited until after my audience?”
“Now, darling,” she said condescendingly, linking her arm with his as they continued walking. “You know you have been too preoccupied lately for me to approach you any other way but boldly. That whole fire business. Then Lady Stuart. Not to mention the nasty distraction of that twopenny actress, Moll Davies.”
“Yet I always have time for you.”
“And you will have even more time once you have won the fair Lady Stuart to your bed. After all, Your Majesty is not known for your attention span.”
He looked over at her, biting back a smile. God, how he adored the unexpected. Even if it must be with Barbara Palmer. One day it would likely be his total undoing.
“And yet you have captivated me for all of these years.”
“Indeed I have. As I have done with others. Following Your Majesty’s model.”
He laughed out loud at that, the absurdity of a competition between them. He was the king of England. He was expected to have other lovers. They were both referring to the Duke of Monmouth, his eldest illegitimate son, who she had been bedding for several months for the mere sport of it. “Let us not delve into that arena,” he said, still chuckling.
As a chastened expression highlighted her own smile, they moved down a wide limestone staircase and into the privy garden. Splashing fountains, neat hedgerows, and fat, blooming rosebushes sheltered them from the ugliness of London by the high walls of the many buildings forming his palace. “I shall see what I can do,” he finally recanted.
He had far too many legitimate concerns at the moment, with the rebuilding of almost an entire city. He certainly did not need another of her tirades. Nor did he fancy the damage she might do with Lady Stuart, who he felt so close to winning. A happy Barbara, he had discovered the hard way, was a quiet Barbara, and that suited his purposes quite nicely. At least until he had won the lovely Lady Stuart to his bed.
“Conniving bastard!” Buckingham charged. “Villainous opportunist!”
As a punctuation mark, he hurled a heavy silver candleholder and candle across the paneled sitting room of his private apartments. He had come away from the king’s chamber, in a fit of fury, followed closely by Thomas Clifford, a young, quick-witted man, who was at court by the grace of his uncle, and who was intent on making his own connections.
As the candle and holder clattered to the floor, the guard posted at the door flinched then signaled for a maid. A moment later, a young girl entered the room, curtsied, and went to clear away the mess.
“That bastard, Arlington, seeks to undermine me with the king at every turn!”
“And yet, is there a soul alive who can achieve such aims?” Clifford flattered him. “You are, after all, His Majesty’s dearest childhood friend, and his closest confidant.”
“I shall not remain so if Henry Bennet has his way! And all over some low wench who caught the king’s eye!”
Clifford burst out laughing. “It always is! Yet, might this not work to your advantage since our king seems to be getting nowhere with the virginal Lady Stuart?”
“And how can you fathom that?”
“I thought Your Grace was hoping to unseat Castlemaine with someone new?”
“Not with this wench! This was a pathetic orange girl! Nevertheless, our great ruler actually gave her a moment, a compliment, and a silver crown for her pluck, if you can imagine anything so vulgar!”
“Well, he has shown a penchant for low girls, actresses, and the like.”
“Penchant or no, I am the power behind the king of England, and that power I mean to remain!”
“I fancy Lady Castlemaine would disagree. Unless we find her weakness.”
“Other women are her greatest weakness. We need only wait for the right time, and the right woman to remind her.”
“We, my lord?”
Buckingham turned to him. “You need an entrée into the higher echelon at court, dear Thomas, and I…well, I could do with a protégé.”
Thomas tipped his head in agreement. “I am honored, sir.”
“I shall squash Arlington like the insect that he is. Castlemaine, too.”
“There was a time, not so long ago, when you and Lady Castlemaine were…close.”
“That was a lifetime ago. Yes, one has to learn that timing is everything.”
“Indeed. I had heard that.”
“Good,” said Buckingham. “Now prove to me that you know what it means.”
“How might I do that, Your Grace?”
“By helping me vanquish the king’s great secretary, Arlington, my enemy. And yours now as well. Castlemaine will come next.”
As barge lights lit the Thames, masking the horror of charred wood and debris, Charles entered the candlelit banqueting hall with Lady Castlemaine a half pace behind him. The queen was already seated. Courtiers dressed in lengths and swirls of brightly colored silks and satins bowed as the royal musicians played the tune for a branle from the carved Tudor gallery above. As Charles was seated with great ceremony, a kneeling page, in royal livery, held out a silver ewer of scented water for his hands. Another held the cloth. From a linen-draped table, arrayed with silver platters and crystal flagons, a gentleman of the banqueting hall tasted first the food His Majesty had selected before a plate could be put before him. The same process was repeated before the queen. Then it was repeated for the king’s mistress.
Queen Catherine, a small-boned Portuguese woman with a plain face, sallow skin, and watery dark eyes, had watched the entrance with a well-honed combination of disgust and resignation. She had married a man who was never, and could never, be faithful to her. Or to anyone. It was one thing to know that. It was quite another to be forced to see it played out before her eyes with humiliating frequency. The only compensation, if there was one, was that Charles was equally as unfaithful to his trollop, Castlemaine, as he was to her. And Catherine was quite certain it bothered Castlemaine more. She felt a smile turn up the tight corners of her mouth, then forced it away. Gloating had no place in the life of a pious queen. She would force herself to pay for the unholy sentiment with another hour on her knees on cold stone in her private chapel.
Lifting the wide, outdated farthingale of her buff-colored gown, she stood, having taken only a single bite from her plate. Then she backed away from the table. If only Castlemaine had an ounce of civility, or a modicum of culture, to compete with her ambition…The queen looked across the table at them. It was not that Charles wished to hurt her. She knew that. Rather, it was that he could not bear to hurt anyone at all, least of all a woman with whom he still slept on a revoltingly frequent basis. What was it, she wondered as she watched the court fall to a hush at her abrupt departure, about a calculating woman, aging rapidly, that held Charles? She wondered with voyeuristic curiosity precisely how she achieved it. In her mind, heart, and in her soul, intercourse was for the creation of children only, an heir for the king. Something that, in four years of marriage, she could not do, while Castlemaine had given him four children who, to her horror, he had quickly acknowledged as his own. That, she reminded herself, was the reason Castlemaine reigned supreme. But a vengeful heart made a poisoned soul, and she would have to do penance for those thoughts, as well.
At first, naively, she had loved him. But that seemed a lifetime ago. Now there was only the longing for home, for Portugal, for the soft lavender-scented breezes near the seashore, and for her family. Catherine glanced back one final time at Charles. He and Castlemaine were laughing and chatting happily.
At least, with the years, the raw part of the wound of his infidelities had healed. That was God’s blessing. With a sigh, Catherine, followed by her entourage of Portuguese ladies, left the banqueting hall.
After dinner, the king walked with friends through the outer gallery and past the old tiltyard of Henry VIII. On the path that led to the privy gardens, the Earl of Arlington approached. Charles waited as he bowed.
“I have found what Your Majesty desires to know.”
“Then tell me.”
“It seems that Eleanor Gwynne, the orange seller who calls herself Nell, is from quite a—shall we call it—colorful family. Her mother is a whore plying her trade on Pudding Lane. Her father is dead, and her only sister is in the Newgate gaol. Nell refuses to ply the family trade, which brought her to Orange Moll.”
“Bring me a petition to release her sister.”
“Your Majesty must know that Rose Gwynne is there for theft.”
“It is my wish that she be released, and so she shall be. Once you have organized that, you are to give Rose Gwynne one hundred pounds, which she is to be instructed keenly by you, personally, to share with her sister, Nell, that the two of them might get their lives in order. Is that clear?”
Once again, Arlington bowed deeply. “Crystal clear, Your Majesty.”
Near midnight, Barbara Palmer rolled onto her back, her bare, fleshy body glistening with a sheen of perspiration, and began to laugh. The canopy above them was blue silk. The tapestry curtains were closed.
“Was I that dreadful?” the young man asked, his dark brown eyes as wide and discerning as his father’s, but without the jaded depth of difficult experiences, and years.
James Scott, Duke of Monmouth, was perfectly sculpted, taut, and deliciously olive skinned, Charles’s Medici blood dominating in his eldest son’s veins, as it did his own. But Monmouth, unlike his father, was an abysmal lover, still as quick and unskilled as a colt.