"Rex, darling! Look at me! Speak to me!"
He opened his eyes at last, very slowly, and as he saw her he tried to smile. "I'm ashamed, Amber," he said softly, "that you saw me—beaten."
"Oh, Rex! I don't care about that! You know I don't! All I care about is you— Are you in pain? Does it hurt you?"
A quick spasm crossed his face and the sweat started suddenly, but his features relaxed again as he looked up at her. "No—Amber. It doesn't hurt. I'll be—" But at that moment he coughed again and turned his head to spit out a great glob of clotted blood. His mouth was splattered with it; his eyes shut and one hand pressed hard against his chest in an effort to stop the gurgling cough.
Bruce slid his arms into the doublet Almsbury held for him, gave Rex a last look and then tossing his cloak over his arm started off, with the Earl and his surgeon, toward where a young page held their horses.
Amber looked around suddenly and saw him walking away. She glanced swiftly at Rex. He lay now quiet and with his eyes closed; she hesitated only an instant and then, very gently, she laid his head onto the grass. Hurriedly she got to her feet and ran after Bruce, calling his name in a soft voice so that Rex would not hear.
"Bruce!"
He swung around and looked at her, incredulity on his face and violent anger. When he spoke his teeth were clenched and the muscles at one side of his mouth twitched with nervous rage. "There's a man dying over there— Go back to him!"
Amber stared at him for a moment in stunned helplessness, unable to believe the contempt and loathing she saw on his face. As though from a distance she heard Rex's voice, calling her name. Blind fury raged in her and before she knew what she was doing she had drawn back her hand and slapped him squarely across the mouth with all the force in her body. She saw his eyes glitter as the blow struck but at the same moment she whirled, picking up her skirts, and was running back to kneel beside Rex. His eyes were open now but as she bent over him she saw that they stared without seeing, his face was expressionless—he was dead. And in his hand, held closely as though he had been trying to lift it high enough to see, was the miniature of herself which she had given him the year before.
PART THREE
Chapter Twenty-two
Groping Lane was a narrow dirty disreputable little alley on Tower Hill. The houses were crazily built and old, and the overhanging stories leaned across the street, almost touching at the top and shutting light and air from the festering piles of refuse that lay against each wall. The great gilded coach tried to turn into the lane but, finding it too narrow, was forced to stop at the entrance. A woman, completely covered by a black hooded cloak and with a vizard over her face, got out and with two footmen on either side of her hurried several yards farther up the alley and disappeared into one of the houses. The footmen remained below, waiting.
Running swiftly up two flights of stairs she paused and knocked on the door just at the top. For a moment there was no reply and she knocked again, hammering impatiently, glancing around as though some unseen pair of eyes might be watching her there in the pitch-dark stairwell. Still the door did not open, but a man's voice spoke from behind it softly:
"Who is it?"
"Let me in! It's Lady Castlemaine, you logger-head!"
As though she had given the magic formula the door swung wide and he bowed from the waist, sweeping out one hand with a gesture of flourishing hospitality as Barbara sailed in.
The room was small and bare and dark, furnished with nothing but some worn, cane-bottomed stools and chairs and a large table littered with papers and piled with books; more books and a globe of the world beside it on the floor. Outside the night was frosty, and the meagre sea-coal fire which burnt in the fireplace warmed only a small area around it. An ugly mongrel dog came to reassure himself by a curious sniff at Barbara's velvet-booted feet, and then returned to gnaw at a bone.
The man who admitted her looked little better than his dog. He was so thin that his chamois breeches and soiled shirt hung upon him as though on a rack. But his pale blue eyes were quick and shrewd and his face for all its gauntness had a look of enthusiasm and intelligence, combined with a certain slyness that was revealed in the shifting of his eyes and the unctuous quality of his smile.
He was Dr. Heydon—the degree he had bestowed upon himself—astrologer and general quack, and Barbara had been there once before to find out whom the King would marry.
"I apologize, your Ladyship," said Heydon now, "for not opening the door immediately. But to be honest with you I am so hounded by my creditors that I dare not open to anyone unless I first make certain of his identity. The truth of it is, your Ladyship," he added, heaving a sigh and flinging out his arms in a gesture of despair, "I scarcely dare leave my lodgings these days for fear I shall be seized upon by a bailiff and carried off to Newgate! Which God forbid!"
But if he hoped to interest Barbara in his problems he was very much mistaken. In the first place she knew well enough that there was no ribbon-seller or perfumer or dressmaker in London with a trade at Court who did not hope to enrich himself at the expense of the nobility. And in the second she had come there to tell him her troubles, not to listen to his.
"I want you to help me, Dr. Heydon. There's something I must know. It means everything to me!"
Heydon rubbed his dry hands together and picked up a pair of thick-lensed spectacles which he perched midway down his nose. "Of course, my lady! Pray be seated." He held a chair for her and then took one himself just across the table, picking up a pen made of a long goose quill and beginning to caress his chin with the tip of it. "Now, Madame, what is it that troubles you?" His tone was sympathetic, inviting confidence, implying a willingness and ability to solve any problem.
Barbara had removed her mask and now she tossed back the hood and dropped the cloak down from her shoulders. As she did so the diamonds at her throat and in her ears and hair caught the light and struck off brilliant sparks; Dr. Heydon's eyes widened and began to glow, focusing upon them.
But Barbara did not notice. She frowned, stripping off her gloves, and for several moments she remained silent and thoughtful. If only there was some way she could get his advice without telling him! She felt like a young bride going to consult a physician, except that her scruples were those not of modesty but of angry and humiliated pride.
How can I tell him that the King's grown tired of me! she thought. Besides, it's not true! I know it isn't! No matter what anyone says! It's just that he's so pleased at the prospect of having a legitimate child—for once! I know he still loves me. He must! He's just as cold to Frances Stewart as he is to me—! Oh, it's all because of that damned woman—that damned Portuguese!
She raised her eyes and looked at him. "You've heard, perhaps," she said at last, "that her Majesty finally proves with child?" She accentuated the word "finally," giving it an inflection which suggested that the delay was due to Catherine's own malicious procrastination.
"Ah, madame! Of course! Haven't we all heard the happy news by now? And high time it is—but then, better late than never, as they say. Eh, your Ladyship?" But at Barbara's quick disapproving scowl he sobered, cleared his throat, and bent over his papers. "Now, what were you saying, your Ladyship?"
"That her Majesty proves with child!" snapped Barbara. "Now, it seems that since it was learned the Queen is pregnant, his Majesty has fallen in love with her. That must be the reason since no one noticed that he paid her any undue attention before. He neglects his old friends and scarcely goes near some of them. I want you to tell me"—suddenly she leaned forward, staring at him intently—"what will happen once the child is born. Will he go back to his old habits then? Or what?"
Heydon nodded his head and bent to his work. For some time he was silent, poring over an extremely complicated map of the heavens which was spread before him, pursing his lips and frowning studiously. From time to time he sucked air through a space between his two front teeth and drummed his fingers on the table. Barbara sat and watched him, he
r excitement mounting and her hopes, as well, for she could not believe that he would give her any really bad news. Somehow, this would all work out to her satisfaction—as everything had always done.
"Faith, madame," he said at last, "you ask me a very difficult question."
"Why? Can't you see into the future? I thought that was your business!" She spoke to him as though he were a glovemaker who had just told her that he would be unable to get the kind of leather she wanted.
"My years of study have not been in vain, madame, I assure you. But such a question— You understand—" He shrugged, spreading his hands, and then made a gesture as of a knife being run across his throat. "If it should be known I had made a prognostication in a matter so important—" He glanced down at his charts again, frowning dubiously, and then he murmured softly, as though to himself: "It's incredible! I can't believe it—"
Barbara, in a froth of sudden excitement, sat far forward on the edge of her chair and her eyes blazed wildly. "What's incredible? What is it? You've got to tell me!"
He leaned back, putting his finger-tips lightly together and contemplating the bony joints. "Ah, madame—it is information of too much importance to be disposed of so casually. Give me a few days to think it over, I pray you."
"No! I can't wait! I've got to know now! I'll run mad if I don't! What do you want—? I'll give you anything! A hundred pound—"
"Have you a hundred pound with you?"
"Not with me. I'll send it tomorrow."
He shook his head. "I'm sorry, madame, but I can no longer do business on credit. It was that practice which brought me to the condition you now see. Perhaps it would be best if you returned tomorrow."
"No! Not tomorrow! I've got to know now! Here—take these ear-rings, and this necklace, and this ring—they're worth more than a hundred pound any day!" She took off her jewels swiftly, tossing them across the table to him as though they were glass baubles bought at a fair or from some street vendor. "Now— Tell me quick!"
He gathered up the jewellery and slipped it into his pocket. "According to the stars, madame, the Queen's child will be born dead."
Barbara gasped. One hand went to cover her mouth and she sank back into her chair, her face shocked and unbelieving. But presently there began to creep into her eyes a look of cunning and of malignant satisfaction.
"Born dead!" she whispered at last. "Are you sure?"
"If the stars are sure, madame, I am sure."
"Of course the stars are sure!" She got up swiftly. "Then he'll come back to me, won't he?" In her sudden joy and new confidence she spoke recklessly.
"It would seem likely, would it not—under the circumstances?" His voice had a soft purring sound and his face was smiling and subtle.
"Of course he will! Good-night, Dr. Heydon!" She lifted the hood up over her head once more as she walked to the door and he followed her, opening it and standing back to bow her out. The dog came too to see the visitor off. She took one step down, holding up her skirts so that she would not stumble in the darkness, and then all at once she glanced back over her shoulder and gave him a dazzling smile. "I hope the diamonds keep you out of Newgate, Doctor! That news was worth far more than a thousand pound to me!"
He bowed again, still smiling and nodding his head, and as she got to the landing and disappeared he closed the door and slowly fastened the bolt. Then he bent to stroke his dog and the animal went meekly down onto its back, its long rat-like tail thumping the floor.
"Towser," he said, "at least we'll eat for a while."
Barbara, however, took the Doctor absolutely at his word and from then on the Queen's health was her greatest concern. She went to her levee every morning, invited her to supper in her own rooms, bribed some of the pages to bring her immediate word if the Queen should fall sick—she kept a constant close but secret watch on everything she did. But Catherine seemed to thrive. She looked healthy and happy and prettier than she ever had.
"Your Majesty is not feeling well?" Barbara asked her at last in desperation. "You look so pale, and tired."
But, Catherine laughed and answered in her heavy accented English: "Of course I'm well, my lady! I've never been more well!"
Barbara began to grow discouraged and even considered demanding the return of her jewels from Dr. Heydon. And then, in mid-October, sometime in the fifth month of Catherine's pregnancy, a rumour swept through the Palace corridors: her Majesty had fallen ill, and had miscarried of the child.
Catherine lay flat on her back in bed, surrounded on all sides by her maids and waiting-women. Her eyes were closed tightly to keep back the tears, for she was desperately sick and afraid. But as she heard Penalva turn and tell one of the women in a whisper to call the King she looked up swiftly.
"No!" she cried. "Don't do that! Don't send for him! It's nothing— I'll be better presently—Wait until Mrs. Tanner comes."
Mrs. Tanner was the midwife who had been taking care of her Majesty, and the moment Catherine had begun to feel sick and faint they had sent for her. She arrived a few minutes later, and as she went toward the bed her cheerful vulgar face contrived to appear both alarmed and optimistic. Mrs. Tanner resembled nothing so much as a fish-wife masquerading as a great lady. Her hair was dyed the fashionable silver-blonde colour that was almost white, her cheeks were so brightly painted with Spanish paper that they looked like autumn apples, and her fingers and wrists and neck were loaded with expensive jewellery—tokens of appreciation from her patients and a convenient and portable form of advertising.
Catherine opened her eyes to find the woman bending over her. "Your Majesty is feeling unwell?"
"I've been having pains—here—and I feel as though—as though I'm bleeding—" She looked up at her with the great mournful eyes of a puppy who begs a favour.
Mrs. Tanner swiftly masked the horrified surprise that came to her face and immediately began to take off her rings and bracelets. "Will your Majesty permit me to make an examination?"
Catherine nodded and Mrs. Tanner gave a signal for the curtains to be pulled about the bed. Then oiling her hands thoroughly with sweet-butter which an assistant had brought, she disappeared for several moments behind the curtains. Once there was a tormented little cry and a soft drawn groan from the Queen, and the face of every woman there winced with sympathetic pain. Finally Mrs. Tanner parted the curtains, dipped her right hand into a basin of water, and whispered to another woman: "Her Majesty has miscarried. Send for the King." A wave of excited murmurs and significant glances rushed around the room.
A few minutes later Charles came in on the run and went immediately to Mrs. Tanner, who was now wiping her hands while two maids sponged blood from the floor. He had been called from the tennis-court and wore only his open-necked shirt and breeches; and his brown face—streaked with sweat— was drawn taut by anxiety.
"What happened? They told me her Majesty had fallen sick—"
Mrs. Tanner could not meet his eyes. "Her Majesty has miscarried, Sire."
A look of horror struck across his face. Swiftly he parted the curtains and knelt beside her bed, out of sight of the roomful of curious watching eyes. "Catherine! Catherine, darling!" His voice was urgent, but low, for she lay with her eyes closed and appeared to be unconscious.
But at last her lashes lifted slowly and she saw him. For a moment there was scarcely even recognition on her face, and then the tears came and she turned her head away with an agonized sob.
"Oh, Catherine! I'm sorry—I'm so sorry! Have they given you something to ease the pain?" His face looked tired and as haggard as hers, for above all things on earth he wanted a legitimate son; but pity made him yearn to protect her.
"It isn't the pain. I don't care about that. Pain doesn't matter— But, oh, I so wanted to give you a son!"
"You will, darling—you will someday. But you mustn't think about that now. Don't think about anything but getting well."
"Oh, I don't want to get well! What good am I on earth if I can't do the one thing I'm put
here for? Oh, my dear—" Her voice now sank so low that he had to lean forward to hear it and she stared up at him, her eyes flooded with self-reproach. "Suppose it's true what they say—that I'm barren—"
Charles was shocked and his breath caught sharply. He had not known she had heard that gossip, though it had been circulated through the Court and even out in the town from the first month of their marriage, perhaps earlier.
"Oh, Catherine, my darling—" his long fingers stroked her hair, caressed her pale moist cheeks. "It isn't true; of course it isn't true. People will talk maliciously as long as they have tongues in their heads. These accidents happen so often, but they mean nothing. You must rest now and grow well and strong—for my sake." He smiled tenderly, and bent his head to kiss her.
"For your sake?" She looked up at him trustingly, and at last she gave him a grateful little smile. "You're so kind. You're so good to me. And I promise—this won't happen the next time."
"Of course it won't. Now go to sleep, my dear, and rest, and presently you'll be well again."
He remained kneeling beside her until her breathing was deep and regular and the little frown of pain had left her forehead, and then he got up and without a word walked from the room and back to his own apartments where he went into his closet alone.
Catherine was no better the next day and she grew steadily worse with each day that passed. They did everything they knew to cure her: They bled her until she was white as the sheets she lay on. They cut live pigeons in two and tied them to the bare soles of her feet to draw out the poison. They gave her purgatives and sneezing-powders, pearls and chloride of gold. Her priests were with her constantly, groaning and wailing and praying, and at every hour the room was filled with people. Royalty could neither be born nor die in quiet and privacy.
Hour after hour Charles sat there beside her, anxiously watching each move that she made. His grief and devotion amazed them all; but for that one episode regarding Castlemaine, he had been a kind but by no means adoring husband.