Trapped at the Altar

“Louise, Louise, so harsh, my darling. Of course they find you perfection. And you must not blame them for finding perfection where their king finds it.” Charles laughed and drew her to the fire. “We must have wine . . . and I dare swear, my love, that you are frozen to the bone. Sunderland, dear fellow, ring for wine.” He gestured with a beringed hand to one of the courtiers. “And a bumper or two of sack . . . indeed, I’ve a mind for a bumper or two of sack.”

He deposited himself in a gilt armchair and drew his mistress onto his knee. “And what of you, Fubbs, what will tempt you?”

“Just these, sire.” Louise pressed her full red lips against his. “That is all I desire.” She stroked his cheek with a fingertip, nothing in the adoring sensuality of her expression revealing how she hated the nickname. It was an ugly sound, for all that it celebrated her plump and luscious figure, and not even the knowledge that the King had named one of his yachts HMS Fubbs in her honor could resign her to it. Irrationally, she always felt as if he were poking fun. But she leaned against him, moved her hips in an infinitesimal and invisible rhythm, and felt him grow hard beneath her.

Servants came in with jugs of wine and sack, trays of pasties and sweetmeats and tiny songbirds in aspic. The dogs howled at the smell of food, and Charles, with a languid wave of his hand, instructed, “Bring them bones, and make sure there’s much meat on them. They’ve been running hard since dawn.”

The servants came back with thick, meaty, marrow-filled bones and, without expression, tossed them into the pack of circling dogs. The hounds fell on them, snapping and snarling in competition. The King smiled with benign satisfaction and patted Fubbs’s rounded bottom as he eased her off his knee. He bit deep into a meat pasty and followed it with a draught of sack.

“His grace the Duke of York,” a footman announced from the double doors, bowing as the heir to the throne stepped into the room.

James looked around the noisy room, at the greasy-mouthed courtiers, now hastily bowing, the rapidly emptying tankards, the pieces of flesh and bone scattered on the rich Turkey carpets, the snapping dogs. Louise was perched on the arm of the King’s chair, delicately gnawing the flesh of a tiny thrush, but she rose instantly to curtsy. A flicker of disdain touched the corners of the Duke’s mouth.

Charles saw his brother’s expression and felt a familiar surge of irritation. His brother’s pious asceticism annoyed him. “Greetings, brother.” He spoke through a mouthful of pasty and took a deep gulp from his tankard. “We missed you at the hunt this morning.”

“I was attending early mass in the chapel with my wife,” James responded with a dour smile. “I trust you enjoyed the chase, sir.”

“Immensely . . . immensely.” Charles flung out a hand in an exuberant gesture and rose to his feet. “You wish private speech with me, brother?”

The Duke of York merely bowed his assent, glancing pointedly once again at the crowd of sweat-rank huntsmen, the pack of slavering dogs. His gaze flicked across the King’s mistress, a woman he wouldn’t trust any farther than he could throw her. It was well-known that Louise had her own political purposes, not necessarily in her royal lover’s best interest.

“Come to my privy chamber, James.” The King strode to a far door. “I bid you good day, gentlemen. Portsmouth, come to me in two hours.”

The Duchess of Portsmouth curtsied and flicked the tiny bones onto a footman’s passing tray. With the King retired to his bedchamber, she had no reason to stay in the antechamber, and with a stately rustle of her rich damask skirts, she moved to the double doors. The courtiers bowed as she passed, and she inclined her head in acknowledgment. She was the King’s favorite, at present even surpassing her rival, Nell Gwyn, in his favors, although she was far too clever to imagine that Nell would ever fade from the picture. The actor’s hold over the King was far too strong. But Louise knew that she herself had much more power over the King than his Queen Consort, Catherine of Braganza, and she possessed a fortune to match. Her coffers were enriched not only by her lover’s generosity but also by gifts from her own king to whom she owed fealty. Louis XIV bought her loyalty, and she repaid him in kind, her spies and her own ears supplying vital pieces of information to the French court.

It pleased her to know that her sharp intelligence and skillful manipulations were concealed from prying eyes by her outward appearance, the almost childlike innocence of her doll-like features and guileless blue eyes. Men did not watch their tongues around her; they had eyes only for her fashionably lush beauty.

Charles stood with his back to the fire in his bedchamber, still gnawing on a mutton chop. “That’s good,” he informed his brother. “Can’t be doing with these mincing little birds Louise likes so much. Nelly loves ’em, too,” he added with a small smile. He enjoyed keeping his rival mistresses on their toes, and truth to tell, he had no idea which one he favored more. He loved Nelly’s ribald wit, her vulgar tongue, her lack of awe when in his presence, but Louise, now, there was a woman whose advice he could rely on. Louise had a brain, a very sharp one. She always had an opinion, and while he did not always agree with it, there was always merit in it.

He licked his fingers, tossed the bone onto a table, and surveyed his brother. “So, what is it?”

James clasped his hands behind his back. “I understand that you have celebrated mass in private several times, brother.”

Charles frowned. “And just what little bird whispered that in your ear, James?”

The Duke shook his head. “I cannot say, but Charles, if you celebrate in private, surely it is time to profess the true faith to your people?”

“Don’t be a fool, James. The country’s up in arms about the issue as it is. They don’t trust you, they won’t stand for a return of Catholicism, and it’s difficult enough for me to insist on naming you, an affirmed Catholic with a Catholic wife, as my heir. That Protestant bastard of mine is a constant thorn in my side, demanding I acknowledge some nonexistent marriage contract with his mother. I would never have married Lucy Waters if my head had been on the block. I acknowledged him as my bastard, made him Duke of Monmouth, favored him in every way, and how does he thank me? By trying to assassinate me. And now there’s talk of his invading and inciting a rebellion in the West Country. If I publicly renounced the Protestant faith, Monmouth would be landing in the west and raising an army before I had time to confess my sins.”

“Then you will die unshriven,” James stated. “Your immortal soul lost to the pits of hell.”

“I’ll take my chance,” the King returned sharply. “I have one duty in this life, and that is to preserve the peace in this country. There’s been enough bloodshed. When the throne is yours, then stir up the devils if you wish, but it’ll not be laid to my hand.”

The Duke bowed and took his leave without another word.

Charles turned to stare down into the crackling logs, seeing fires of rebellion in their flames. He would keep those fires from the land for as long as he was able, but he feared that once he was laid to rest and his Catholic brother came to the throne, there would be no holding back the fierce Protestant revolt that would result. Nothing, unless James kept his faith secret and in public practiced Protestant worship. But James was a fanatic. Nevertheless, he was the one true heir to the throne on his brother’s death, and when all was said and done, in essence, it was not for the people of this country to choose their sovereign. That choice was God’s, and his brother of York was the rightful successor.