Forever Amber by Kathleen Winsor
There she and Nan turned to see Big John come in dragging by the nape of the neck a thin angry little man who still kicked and flailed out with his arms, though each time he did so Big John gave him a rough shake that quieted him. Both of them were muddy almost to the knees and splashed with water. John tossed him into a heap in one corner. He began to shake himself and to straighten his clothes, ignoring all of them with an elaborate pretense of being alone.
"What were you doing out there?" demanded Amber.
He neither looked at her nor made an answer.
She repeated the question and this time he gave her merely a sullen glare as he pulled at his coat-sleeve.
"You insolent wretch! I think I know a way to make you find your tongue!"
She gave a nod of her head to Big John and he stepped to a table, opened one of the drawers and took out a short whip having several narrow leather thongs, each of them tipped with lead.
"Now will you answer me!" cried Amber. He continued silent and Big John raised the whip and slashed it down over his chest and shoulders, one leaden tip biting into his cheek and drawing blood. While Amber and Nan stood coolly watching he lashed at him again and then again, striking him ruthlessly, though the man writhed and drew up his legs, trying to protect his face and head with his hands. At last he gave a sobbing moan.
"Stop! for the love of God—stop! I'll tell you—"
Big John let the whip fall to his side and stepped back; drops of blood splashed off the leaden ends onto the floor.
"You're a fool!" said Amber. "What did it get you to hold your peace? Now tell me—what were you doing out there, and who sent you?"
"I dare not tell. Please—your Ladyship." His voice took on an ingratiating whine. "Don't make me tell, your Ladyship. If I do my master will have me beaten."
"And if you don't, I will," retorted Amber, with a significant glance at Big John who stood with both fists on his hips, alert and waiting.
The man glanced up, frowned, gave a sigh and then licked at his lips. "I was sent by his Grace—the Duke of Buckingham."
That was what she had expected. She knew that Buckingham watched her closely but this was the first time she had actually caught one of his spies, though she had discharged four serving-girls she had suspected of being in his pay.
"What for?"
The man talked rapidly now, but in a sullen monotone, his eyes on the floor. "I was to watch Father Scroope—everywhere he went—and report to his Grace."
"And where will you report that you saw him tonight?" Her eyes stared at him, slanting, bright and hard and pitiless.
"Why—uh—he didn't leave his quarters at all tonight, your Ladyship."
"Good. Remember that now. Next time my man won't be so gentle with you. And don't come back here to prowl again, unless you want your nose slit. Take 'im out, John."
Chapter Fifty-nine
Amber had always been friendly and respectful in her association with the Queen, partly because it seemed politic, partly because she was sorry for her. But her pity was casual and her half-affection cynical—it was the same feeling she had for Jenny Mortimer and Lady Almsbury, or any other woman from whom it seemed she had little to fear. And yet she knew that Catherine, when given the opportunity, was a good and diligent friend; she was so generally ignored by the self-seekers who swarmed Whitehall that she had come to be almost grateful to whoever sought her favour. It had occurred to Amber that this would be a very good opportunity to gain her Majesty's good will—which might be put to use in her own behalf. Her talk with the Queen had the effect she wanted. Catherine—though struck with horror and bewilderment to learn that her enemies were again plotting to get rid of her—was easily persuaded that King Charles knew nothing of the plan and would have been furious if he had. Her wish to believe that he saved some part of his squandered affections for her, that he continued to think that one day she could give him the heir they both so passionately desired, was pathetic even to Amber. And though Amber did not just then mention her wish for a duchy she spoke of it a few days later; and Catherine immediately, though with a certain shyness, for she was aware of her limited influence, offered to help her if she could. Amber congratulated herself that she had made a friend—not the most powerful one, perhaps; but a friend who could be of any use at all was not to be scorned.
At Court there was a saying that an unprofitable friend was equal to an insignificant enemy. Amber did not trouble herself with either.
She had soon learned that in the Palace opportunities never came to those who sat and waited—patience and innocence were two useless commodities there. It was necessary to be ceaselessly active, to be informed about each great and small event which passed above or below stairs, to take advantage of everyone and everything. It was a kind of life to which she adjusted herself rapidly and with ease—nothing inside her rebelled against it.
By now she had surrounded herself with a system of espionage which spread in every direction, from the Bowling Green to Scotland Yard and from the Park Gate to the Privy Stairs. Whatever complaints might be made about his Majesty's secret-service could certainly not be applied to the courtiers, for vast sums were continuously being paid out to keep each man and woman there informed about his neighbors' doings, whether in love, religion, or politics.
Amber employed a strange assortment of persons. There were two or three of Buckingham's footmen; a man whom he used for confidential business of his own but who was glad to make a few hundred pounds more by reporting on his master; the Duke's tailor; the Duchess's dressmaker and Lady Shrewsbury's hair-dresser. Madame Bennet kept her informed about the extra-marital activities of many gentlemen, including his Grace, and amused her with stories of Buckingham's weird devices for stirring up his worn and weary emotions. She received further information on others about the Court from a miscellaneous collection of whores, tavern-waiters, pages, bargemen, sentries.
Many of these spies she never saw at all and most of them had no idea as to who their employer might be. For it was Nan —wearing a blonde or black wig over her golden-red hair, a full-faced vizard together with hood and flowing cloak, who went about her mistress's business after nightfall. Big John Waterman went along to take care of her, dressed now as a porter, now as footman for a great lady, or sometimes merely as a plain citizen. Nan took the news and delivered the money, haggling for a good bargain and proud of herself if she saved Amber a pound, for she had a better memory of the lean days than her mistress.
Amber knew where and with whom the King spent his nights when she did not see him. She knew every time Castlemaine took a new lover or ordered a new gown. She knew when the Queen seemed to have symptoms of pregnancy, what was said in the Council room, which Maid of Honour had just had a secret abortion, what lord or lady was being treated in a Leather Lane powdering-tub for the pox. It cost her a great deal but she knew almost everything which passed at Whitehall—though much of it was of no value to her save for the pleasure of having other people's secrets. Still she dared not be ignorant of the Palace gossip, for it would only have earned her the scorn of those who knew.
And often, of course, she could turn her knowledge to some practical use—as she did the secret bought from Father Scroope.
It was yet early the next morning when Buckingham came up Amber's back-staircase, his wig mussed and clothes dishevelled. He rattled across the marble floor on his high-heeled shoes and as he bent to give her a salute his breath had the stale sour smell of brandy drunk several hours before. Amber was propped up against pillows sleepily drinking a mugful of hot chocolate, but at sight of him she was instantly wide awake, on her guard.
"Well, your Grace! You look as if you've made a merry night of it!"
He grinned disarmingly. "I think I did, though damn me if I can remember!" Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, facing her. "Well, madame—you'd never think what news I've got for you!"
Their eyes swung quickly together, stared hard for the briefest instant; then he smiled and she l
"No, no. I heard all that last week. Don't you know the latest gossip about yourself? Tut, tut, madame. They're saying—" Here he gave a slight and, she thought, a sinister pause. "They're saying," he finished briskly, "that Colbert just made you a gift of a diamond necklace valued at two thousand pound."
Amber had a quick sense of relief, for she had feared that he was there to talk about Father Scroope. She finished her chocolate and set the mug onto the table beside the bed. "Well—if that's what they're saying, it's true. Or true enough, anyhow— my jeweller says it's worth six hundred pound. Still, it's pretty enough, I think."
"Perhaps you like Spanish jewels better."
Now Amber laughed. "Your Grace knows everything. I wish I had such an intelligence-net myself. I swear all the news comes to me cold as porridge, no matter how high I pay for it. But I'll tell you truth—the Spanish ambassador gave me an emerald bracelet—and it was handsomer than the French necklace."
"Then your Ladyship intends to cast in with the Spaniards?"
"Not at all, your Grace. I'll cast in with the Dutch or the Devil, at a price. After all, isn't that the way we do business here at Court?"
"If it is you shouldn't admit it. The news might carry—then what would your price be?"
"Oh, but surely one may be allowed to speak frankly among friends." Her voice gave him a light flick of sarcasm.
"You've grown mighty high, haven't you, madame, since the days you trod the boards wearing some Maid of Honour's cast-off gown? Even the Pope, they say, begins to court your favour."
"The Pope!" cried Amber, horrified. "Good Lord, sir, I protest! I've had no traffic with the Pope, let me tell you!"
Amber had little use for her own religion—except when she was alarmed or worried or wanted something—but she shared the popular hatred of Catholicism, without any idea as to why she hated it.
"No traffic with the Pope? But I've got it on very good authority your Ladyship sometimes entertains Father Scroope in the dead of the— Oh! I beg your Ladyship's pardon!" he cried with mock concern. "Have I said something to startle your Ladyship?"
"No, of course not! But where the devil did you get an idea like that? Me, entertaining Father Scroope! What for, pray? I've got no taste for bald fat old men, not I!" She tossed back her hair and started to get out of bed, pulling her dressing-gown around her as she did so.
"Just a moment, madame!" Buckingham caught hold of her arm and she looked at him defiantly. "I think you know well enough what I'm talking about!"
"And what, then, are you talking about, sir?"
Amber was growing angry. Something insolent in his Grace's manner always brought her temper to the surface with a rush.
"I'm talking, madame, about the fact that you are interfering in my business. To be quite plain with you, madame, I know that you discovered my arrangement with Father Scroope and took steps to forestall the plan." His arrogant handsome face had settled into hard lines and he stared at her with threatening violence. "I thought that we had agreed to play the game together—you and I."
She gave a swift jerk of her arm to free herself and jumped to her feet. "I'll play the game with you, your Grace—but damn me if I'll play it against myself! It could scarce be much to my advantage, d'ye think, if her Majesty left the Court and—"
Just at that moment the King's spaniels rushed scraping and clawing into the room and before Amber and the Duke could compose themselves Charles had strolled in, followed by several of the courtiers.
Buckingham instantly smoothed out his face and went to kiss the King's hand—it was the first time he had seen him since the day in the garden when Charles had called him a scoundrel. The Duke lingered several minutes longer, affable and talkative, pretending to Amber and all of them that they had merely been having a friendly chat; but she was considerably relieved when he left. News of the quarrel spread rapidly. When she met Barbara in her Majesty's apartments before noon the Lady had already heard of it and undertook to let her know that her cousin had sworn to all his acquaintance he would ruin Lady Danforth if it took the rest of his life. Amber laughed at that and said let Buckingham do his worst, she did not doubt to hold her own. And she knew that she could, too, while the King liked her. After all, she had been at Whitehall only one year and any possible loss of Charles's affections still seemed to her, like old age, a distant and unlikely misfortune.
And certainly the first result of their broil seemed a very favourable one. Baron Arlington came to pay his first secret call upon her.
The Baron had always been polite to Amber, with his own cold aloof Castilian courtesy, but he had never troubled himself to show her any undue attention. For if Charles thought that ladies were better suited to other occupations than politics, his Secretary of State was convinced that all women were a damned nuisance and should be shipped away to let men run the country in peace. Still, Arlington was a politician and he never allowed prejudice or emotion to interfere with important business. Serving his King was the important business of his life, though he hoped and intended to serve himself at the same time. Evidently he had decided that because of the rupture with Buckingham she might be of some use to him.
Amber came in one night, late and very gay—for she and Charles and a dozen or more lords and ladies had put on cloaks and masks and driven out to visit the Beggars' Bush, a disreputable tavern in High Holborn where the beggars, both men and women, held weekly carousals. Arlington and King Charles were good and close friends, but the stiff solemn Baron seldom made one of such a frivolous party. Amber was astonished when Nan told her that he was downstairs and had been waiting there for almost an hour.
"Ye gods! Send 'im up then—post-haste!"
She tossed her mask and gloves and muff aside and dropped her cloak over Tansy who, completely enveloped, went groping his way across the room. Amber laughed as she watched him, then turned about to face her portrait above the fireplace, frowning critically and with displeasure as she examined it. Now, why had he made her so plump? Certainly she had no Roman nose, and that wasn't anything like the colour of her hair. She was annoyed every time she saw it for Lely insisted on painting each sitter, not as she really was, but after some pattern of his own to which he tried to fit the entire sex. But then, he was the fashion.
She turned back as Nan ushered Lord Arlington into the room. He bowed from the doorway while she made him a curtsy.
"Madame, my humble service to you."
"Your servant, sir. Pray come in—I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."
"Not at all, madame. I occupied the time with writing some letters."
He was wrapped from head to foot in a great swirling black cloak and in his hand was a vizard. And now as he smiled he put on like a garment the charm which he held in reserve for necessary occasions, and wore only where it should show to advantage. There was no sincerity in the man, but there was a good deal of craft and guile as well as shrewdness and, what was rare in Charles's easy-going Court, a methodical application to business.
"You're alone, madame?"
"Quite, my lord. Won't you be seated and may I offer you something to drink?"
"Thank you, madame. It's kind of your Ladyship to receive me at this inconvenient hour."
"Oh, never speak of it, my lord," protested Amber. "It's I that am grateful for your Lordship's condescension in paying me a visit."
A servant came in then carrying a tray, with glasses and decanters, and set it down on a low table. Amber poured brandy for the Baron, clary-water for herself and he proposed her health. They sat there a few moments longer—in her great scarlet-and-silver and black-marble chamber where a hundred reflections of them showed in the Venetian mirrors—bandying compliments.
But at last the Baron got to the business of his visit. "All t
They were, of course, desperate enemies, but Arlington was too cautious to admit it though Buckingham was usually ready to tell whoever would listen. Only a short while before he had snorted at Amber, when she had referred to the Baron as a dangerous foe: "Madame, I scorn to have a fool for an enemy!"
"It seems," continued Arlington, "he doesn't want you friendly with anyone but himself. The truth on it is, madame, it came to my ears today on very good authority that his Grace has told Colbert it's useless to make you further gifts because you are already committed to the cause of Spain."
"The devil he did!" cried Amber indignantly, for she was convinced that she had no more use for Buckingham or his tricky friendship. "He's as meddlesome as an old bawd! The way he uses his friends it's no wonder they soon wear out!"
"Oh, please, madame—not so hard on his Grace, I beg of you! It was never my intention to make you suspect his Grace's friendship for you. But it seems he wants to keep you for himself, and I had hoped that you and I might be friends also."
"I see no reason why we shouldn't, my lord. Sure a woman may be allowed two friends—even at Whitehall."
The Baron smiled. "You seem to be a woman of wit, madame —than which I admire nothing more." She poured him another glass of brandy. He sat for a moment, staring into it reflectively, saying nothing. Then, finally: "I understand that your Ladyship is to be congratulated."
"For what, pray?"
"It runs through the galleries your young son will inherit a dukedom."
Amber suddenly sat forward in her chair, her eyes glittering and eager. "Did the King tell you—"