The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3) (14 page)

Eden looked back at her, wishing he didn’t remember what she looked like without her clothes.
 
He also wished the night-dark eyes didn’t seem to be able to see right through him.
 
With a tolerable assumption of amusement, he said, ‘What did you have in mind?’

‘That’s up to you, Colonel.
 
But Nicholas won’t be back on his feet for a while and Verity is seventeen years old, with no more idea of the world than a kitten.
 
They’re not going to manage on their own.’

‘No.
 
I suppose not.
 
And what of you?’

‘I’ll be all right.
 
I’ll find work in a tavern or a laundry or some such. I can turn my hand to most things.’ She faced him challengingly. ‘Are you going to talk to Nicholas?’

Eden sighed. ‘I suppose I’d better if he’s well enough.’

‘He’s well enough.
 
But don’t be surprised if he’s too apathetic to talk back.’

*
 
*
 
*

Verity scrambled to her feet when Colonel Maxwell appeared at the wagon and stammered, ‘C-Colonel!
 
I w-wanted to come and thank you but Sergeant Trotter said --’

‘That you were to stay out of sight of the officers.
 
Yes.’
 
Eden’s tone was pleasant but quelling.
 
‘I’d prefer as few people as possible to know who many rules I’m breaking.’
 
He looked into Nicholas’s expressionless eyes. ‘Since you’re awake, I think it’s time we had a talk.’

Nicholas said nothing.
 

Verity opened her mouth to reply for him but was forestalled by the Colonel saying firmly, ‘I’d be grateful if you could leave us for a time, Mistress Marriott.’
 
He waited for her to go and, when she had done so, sat down and came straight to the point. ‘Who are you?’

‘Captain Sir Nicholas Austin.’

‘Which regiment?’

‘Colonel Peverell’s.’

‘Never heard of him,’ said Eden cheerfully.
 
‘Any good, is he?’

‘I thought so.’
 
The words were ambiguous, the tone one of pure apathy.

Eden frowned slightly. ‘Tell me about him.’

‘What is there to say?
 
He did his best.’
 
A pause. ‘We all did.’

‘Not quite all, as I understand it.
 
Leslie’s Horse was never engaged.’

‘Weren’t they?
 
I don’t remember.’

‘What’s the last thing you
do
remember?’

Nicholas turned his head away. ‘Seeing Ashley. Colonel Peverell.
 
We’d got separated but I saw him again in Friar Street.
 
He waved for me to join him only – only I was shot.’

‘And he couldn’t get you out?’

‘Obviously not.’
 
Nicholas’s brow furrowed with effort.
 
‘I think Francis was wounded, too.
 
I – I remember his coat being all bloody.’

‘Francis?’ said Eden sharply. ‘Not Francis Langley, by any chance?’

‘Yes.’
 
For the first time, Nicholas looked vaguely interested. ‘Do you know him?’

Eden laughed.
 
‘Oh yes.
 
I’ve known him since I was eight. But the last time I saw him was at Upton, a couple of days before the battle.
 
His fellows had just nearly roasted mine alive and I wanted to murder him.
 
He thought I was going to do it, too.
 
But it’s a bit difficult to kill somebody you’ve been birds-nesting with, don’t you find?’

‘I suppose so.’
 
Nicholas shifted restlessly and the tiny spark in his eyes faded. ‘Verity says I owe you my life.’

‘No.
 
You owe Verity and Mistress Hart your life.’

‘All three of you, then.’
 
Another pause. ‘What are you going to do with me?’

‘Offer you a bargain,’ replied Eden, having been aware for some time that it would come to this. ‘Give me your word that you won’t fight for Charles Stuart again and I’ll --’

‘With one arm?’ snapped Nicholas bitterly.

‘You wouldn’t be the first.
 
However.
 
Give me your parole and I’ll try to keep you out of the Tower.
 
I can’t promise – but I’ll do my best.’

‘Why?’
 
A tiny flicker of hope mingled oddly with the desolation in the brown eyes. ‘Why would you do that?’

Eden sighed and stood up.

‘I’m not entirely sure.
 
Let’s just say I’m reluctant to have everybody’s efforts on your behalf go to waste … and leave it at that.’

‘But where --?’

‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.
 
In short,’ grinned Eden, ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.
 
But when I find the solution, you’ll be the first to know.’

~
 
*
 
*
 
~
 
*
 
*
 
~

At around the time Nicholas was beginning to return to the land of the living, His Majesty the King finally landed on the coast of France.
 
His adventures in the seven weeks since the battle had included an oak tree, a priest’s hole and the help of many brave and loyal souls.
 
He’d been disguised as a groom, a scullion and an eloping lover.
 
But he’d reached safety with his head still on his shoulders – which, under the circumstances, was a miracle.

Knowing none of this and with less help of their own to call on, Colonel Peverell and Major Langley were still lurking in a ruined barn near Devizes, wearily contemplating their next move.

They’d escaped from Worcester without too much difficulty.
 
Jem Barker – always one step ahead of possible pursuit – had met them outside St Martin’s gate, laden with as many of their combined belongings as he could carry; and because General Leslie’s cavalry would naturally be fleeing north towards the border, Ashley had reasoned that their own safest course lay in the opposite direction.
 

They’d discarded all items of clothing which marked them as soldiers, travelled largely by night along back-roads and left the acquisition of provisions to Jem.
 
For the first few days – despite Francis’s wound refusing to completely stop bleeding and leaving him weak as a result – it had been relatively easy.
 
By the end of a week, however, the net was beginning to tighten as Commonwealth troops arrested every suspected Cavalier in their path while they scoured the land in search of the King.
 
And they were still many miles from the sea.

Although he was rarely out of their thoughts, they spoke of Nicholas only once.
 
Francis said, ‘He may be alive.
 
If he is, they’ll have taken him prisoner.’

And Ashley replied, ‘Along with thousands of others.
 
You’ve enough experience to know how these things work. Firstly, how many surgeons do you suppose they have? And by the time they’ve separated the living from the dead and supplied aid to those who have a chance of surviving, there’ll be a fresh set of corpses.’
 
Then, later, ‘I should have gone back.
 
I might not have been able to save him – but I should have tried.’
 
And later still, on a furious explosion of breath, ‘God damn David Leslie!
 
If he’d engaged his Horse we could have won.
 
God damn him to the lowest pit of hell.’

By the time they passed Devizes, Francis’s arm was finally showing small signs of improvement.
 
And that was when Ashley announced that trying to take ship for France or the Netherlands while the whole country was still on the look-out for fugitives from the battle was as quick a way as any to court capture.

‘Very likely.’ Unshaven and filthier than he had ever been in his life, Francis shifted his back against the rough stone wall of the barn and winced as pain lanced through his arm. ‘How do you think His Majesty is faring?’

‘Better than us, I hope.
 
Wilmot was with him – and Derby and Gifford and some others.
 
Too many, probably.
 
The larger the party, the less likely it is to pass unnoticed.
 
But hopefully they’ve managed to get Charles out of the country – or at least found him somewhere safe to hide until they can.’

‘And us?
 
How long can we go on like this?
 
Our appearance isn’t exactly calculated to go unremarked, is it?’

‘No.
 
So if we’re going to wait until the chase dies down, our first task is to exchange our present clothing for something more humble.’

‘Is that possible?’ asked Francis, distastefully eyeing the state of his coat.

‘Yes.
 
We may be in rags – but they’re
good
rags,’ replied Ashley wryly.
 
‘What we need is homespun and clouted shoes.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You’ll have to stay out of sight until your arm is healed. Battle-wounds are likely to be a bit of a give-away.
 
So for the time being, Jem and I will continue to forage as before.
 
But when you’re fit again, we go back into Devizes – separately, of course – and we find work.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You heard.’
 
Colonel Peverell smiled grimly. ‘We hire ourselves out as stable-hands, potboys, gardeners, scullions – anything which doesn’t require skills we haven’t got.
 
And we act.
 
You can manage that, can’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Francis truthfully. ‘I really don’t know.
 
But if it’s a choice between that and spending another few months in the Tower, I’ll do my best.
 
Anything, in fact, that will eventually lead us out of this nightmare and back to civilisation.’

‘Predictable as ever, I see.’

‘Naturally.
 
I haven’t cared to mention it … but the thought of a bath and some decent clothes is the only thing which has been keeping me going for several miles now.
 
That and a little fantasy of my own which I prefer to nurture in private.’

‘Hold on to it,’ advised Ashley. ‘It may help soften the pain when Jem hacks off your lovelocks with a knife.’

~
 
*
 
*
 
~
 
*
 
*
 
~

‘Worldly wealth he cared not for, desiring only to make both ends meet.’

Thomas Fuller
 

In contrast to the bright spring weather which cheered the rest of Paris, storm clouds gathered over the rue Vieille du Temple where rehearsals for the Th
éâ
tre du Marais’ forthcoming revival of
Le Cid
had ground to a halt for the third time in less than an hour.

‘Imbecile!’ roared Clermont, storming down on Etienne Lepreux. ‘
Im-bec-ile!
 
Your move is upstage.
 
Upstage!
 
Do you understand where that is?
 
It is back there!
 
A simple direction even a complete idiot should be able to follow.
 
And you do not
ever
, under
any
circumstances, cross in front of
me!
’

Athenais de Galzain sat on the edge of the stage and sank her teeth into an apple.
 
Not for the first time, she wondered whether she’d been wise to decline the tentative approach from the Illustre Th
éâ
tre. Jean-Baptiste Poquelin de Moli
è
re’s clever touch with comedy was earning his troupe a sound reputation.
 
But joining a touring company wouldn’t be the quickest way of advancing her career; and at the Illustre Th
éâ
tre she would be competing for roles with Madeleine B
é
jart – who was as red-haired as Athenais herself and also had the advantage of being Jean-Baptiste Poquelin’s mistress.

So she had remained at the Marais and generally managed to overlook its drawbacks.
 
The first of these was that the repertoire consisted largely of old-fashioned farces.
 
This week, for example, they were doing Rotrou’s
La Bague de L’Oubli
which was forty years old and had been played so often that audiences were apt to chorus the best lines along with the actors.
 
The second was that she was frequently required to act opposite a temperamental old fart who wasn’t nearly as good as he thought he was and smelled perpetually of garlic.

Athenais spat a pip into the musician’s gallery and reflected that she was heartily sick of Arnaud Clermont.
 
He had played (as he was fond of reminding everyone) with all the Greats.
 
What he chose to ignore – and what no one quite dared to point out – was that acting alongside Montdory and Jodelet didn’t necessarily mean he shared their stature.
 
And, as far as Athenais was concerned, the only notable things about Clermont were his dragon’s breath and his sheer bloody arrogance – both of which were likely to stop her enjoying her first chance to play Corneille.

The news that, sixteen years after having premiered it, the Marais was to present a revival of
Le Cid
had stunned the company because Corneille had been sending his plays to the H
ô
tel de Bourgogne for the last fifteen.
 
Before that, the late Cardinal Richelieu had supported the Marais while the King favoured the Bourgogne – resulting in often violent rivalry between the two theatres.
 
But when Montdory retired from the stage after suffering an apoplexy on it, Richelieu had withdrawn his patronage … resulting in the Marais’ swift decline to second-rate status.

On the other hand, people came and the house was never less than two-thirds full. Athenais wondered what the
Cid
would do for the takings – and how much Manager Laroque was having to pay for the privilege of staging it.
 
Hopefully, not too much.
 
Corneille’s last play had been a failure and the one before, not much better.
 
Rumour had it that the Bourgogne had lost faith in his ability which, if it was true, accounted for the playwright’s sudden willingness to deal with the poor relation he’d abandoned a decade and a half ago.

Behind her on the stage, Clermont’s tantrum droned on.
 

‘I cannot,’ he ranted, ‘tolerate working with amateurs.
 
While lack of presence and talent may be excused in the young – an absence of any knowledge of stage-craft cannot.
 
Perhaps Etienne should go back to doing walk-ons until he has mastered the basics of our art.’

Athenais tossed her apple-core into the pit and contemplated her ankles.
 
Like the rest of her diminutive person, they were shapely.
 
Indeed, it was largely her looks – coupled with the business of the feathers – which had taken her from six-line cameos to leading roles in just under a year.
 
But it was aggravating to be regarded as just another pretty face when one also had a sound grasp of one’s craft.
 
Worse still, public taste was notoriously fickle; and though
la petite Galzain
was currently in fashion, there was no guarantee of it lasting.

The delay was lasting too long.
 
Athenais swung her feet back on to the boards and stood up.
 
The rest of the cast were either propping up the proscenium with expressions of profound irritation or standing about in pairs, muttering.
 
Athenais knew how they felt.
 
It was usually best to let Clermont run his course; but with only a week to go and the play still in shreds, they could ill-afford to waste an entire afternoon.
 
Antoine Froissart, in charge of directing the rehearsal, obviously thought so too and was attempting, without noticeable success, to get a word in edgeways.
 
Athenais decided that a more direct approach was called for.

Summoning her sweetest smile and ignoring Froissart’s warning frown, she crossed to Clermont’s side and tucked her arm through his.

‘Arnaud … naughty as it was of Etienne to cross in front of you, you shouldn’t be wasting your energies in this fashion.
 
It was a mistake and he won’t do it again.
 
Meanwhile, we’ve a performance tonight – and what chance has it got if our leading man is too weary to give of his best?’
 
She paused and laid her free hand over his.
 
‘Think how the rest of us rely on you, Arnaud.
 
Above all, think of your
public
.’

Clermont clasped her hand and, in a voice quivering with anguish, exclaimed, ‘You are right!
 
I
do
have a duty to preserve myself.
 
But what can one do?
 
Selfishness is an anathema to me and the play must come first.
 
Etienne is an imbecile!’

‘I know.’
 
Caught in a wave of foul breath, Athenais struggled not to grimace. ‘I know.
 
But you’ve shown him his mistake and now you must spare yourself.
 
No – you must listen to me.
 
If you won’t have a care for yourself, the rest of us must do it for you.’
 
She smiled again and, making the ultimate sacrifice, added, ‘Would it soothe you to rehearse our love scene?’

Clermont hesitated and everybody else held their breath.
 
Then he said, ‘I’m sure it would, beloved … and your empathy overwhelms me.
 
Sadly, however, I am
far
too agitated to continue … and I shudder to think what my performance may be like this evening if I don’t rest. Forgive me!’ He silenced Athenais with one hand and clutched his brow with the other.
 
‘I must leave you to manage as best you may whilst I retire to my couch for the benefit of all.’
 
And still clasping his head, he stalked from the stage and disappeared.

There was a long silence.
 
Then, from his corner, Etienne Lepreux muttered bitterly, ‘If you ask me, it would be a mercy if the old bugger retired
completely
.’

The tension disintegrated into a ripple of laughter.
 
Athenais met Froissart’s slightly desperate stare and, with a tiny shrug, said, ‘Sorry, Monsieur.
 
It went wrong.’

‘It did,’ agreed the assistant-manager, long-sufferingly.
 
And then, a sudden smile breaking through, ‘But it was a nice try.
 
A trifle over-played perhaps … but beautifully scripted.’

‘Mademoiselle de Galzain is a positive mine of accomplishments,’ drawled a female voice from the wings.
 
‘One is constantly amazed.
 
In time, we shall doubtless see her picking up her pen and aping that scribbler, Moli
è
re.’

Athenais looked across at her arch-rival.
 
Tall, dark-haired and deep-bosomed, Marie d’Amboise had been playing tragic leads for nearly a full decade before Athenais had struck the public fancy; and since she was by no means ready to retire from her position as first lady of the company, she had naturally conceived a violent dislike for her successor.

Athenais understood this and sympathised.
 
She was even ready to admit that Marie’s statuesque appearance was probably better suited to roles like Chim
è
ne than her own petite slenderness.
 
She was not, however, prepared to be trodden on; and consequently she said gratefully, ‘Thank you, Madame.
 
I fear you flatter me … but encouragement from one of your superior age and experience is always welcome.’

An angry flush touched Marie’s cheek and, seeing it, Froissart said quickly, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve wasted enough time for one day. Arnaud’s departure is unfortunate but there are still those scenes in which he doesn’t appear.
 
Mademoiselle de Galzain, Madame d’Amboise – we’ll begin on page twenty-six.’

‘Why?’ exploded Etienne. ‘I’m understudying Rodrigue – and I could play him, too.
 
At least I’m the right age – unlike that fat old arse-worm!’

‘Youth,’ observed Marie d’Amboise coldly, ‘isn’t everything.
 
Experience and talent still count for something.’

‘I know that – and so does Clermont.
 
Basically, he’s got the experience and I’ve got the talent.
 
Why else do you think he refuses to let me rehearse – if not because he’s shit-scared I’ll act him off the sodding stage?’

There was some truth in that, thought Athenais.
 
Meeting Froissart’s gaze, she said persuasively, ‘Couldn’t Etienne stand in, Monsieur?
 
Just this once, to help the rest of us?’

‘I don’t see the point of rehearsing around stand-ins,’ yawned Marie. ‘And Clermont would be furious.
 
He doesn’t permit
anyone
to read in for him.
 
Ever.’

‘Then he ought to have stayed,’ shrugged Athenais.
 
‘He said himself that the play comes first.
 
And if we start now, we’ve got time to get through the first act.’

Froissart thought about it.
 
Part of him was eager to see what young Lepreux made of the
Cid
; another part said it might be better not to know.
 
Lacklustre as Clermont’s performances often were, he still commanded a certain following among the middle-aged matrons he’d captivated twenty years ago.
 
Consequently, supplanting him with a newcomer of remarkable stage-presence but undistinguished appearance wasn’t likely to do much for the takings – particularly in these uncertain times.

The so-called Princes’ Fronde – caused by the late Cardinal Richelieu’s determination to crush the power of the nobility – had boiled over the previous autumn and swiftly become a power-struggle between Louis de Bourbon, the Prince de Cond
é
and Richelieu’s successor, Cardinal Mazarin.
 
Since then, Cond
é
had taken Paris and forced both Court and Cardinal into exile at St. Germain.
 
Froissart suspected that this situation was likely to be temporary.
 
On the other hand, it was the kind of thing which could be very bad for business unless one turned it to one’s advantage.
 
And that was why he and Pierre Regnault Petit-Jean Laroque had decided to echo Cond
é
’s triumph with a piece about another great warrior.

Clermont was the devil one knew. Lepreux was a gamble and allowing him to rehearse Rodrigue would conjure up a storm – for which Manager Laroque was unlikely to thank him.
 
Sighing, Froissart opened his mouth on a sensible refusal … and, instead, heard himself say curtly, ‘Very well. Act one, scene one.
 
Begin.’

*
 
*
 
*

An hour or so later when everyone else had left to snatch a brief rest before the evening performance, Athenais de Galzain – whose home lay on the far side of the Seine – sat in the Green Room with her feet up and nibbled absently on an almond cake whilst having her hair brushed.

‘Etienne was good, Pauline,’ she remarked meditatively, at length. ‘
Really
good.
 
If Froissart had any sense, he’d ask Monsieur Laroque to give him the part.’

‘And lose Clermont to the H
ô
tel de Bourgogne?
 
Don’t be ridiculous.
 
Froissart knows which side his bread is buttered,’ returned the wardrobe-mistress cum dresser tersely. Then, on a small explosion of breath, ‘Pity the same can’t be said of you.’