Virginia Henley - Unmasked Read online

Some of his young soldiers tried to flee and were cut down by the forces that now surrounded them. Greysteel fought back furiously but saw that his men, greatly outnumbered, were receiving more wounds than they inflicted. He knew the young devils would all die if he didn't put a stop to it. Though it almost choked him, he thundered out an order. "Surrender!"

  Saint-Germain, France

  Velvet Cavendish lay in her bed dreaming. A rebel­lious feeling rose up inside her and threatened to ex­plode as she listened to her governess.

  "A lady does not laugh out loud. It shows a lack of breeding and moreover, it is downright vulgar. A lady merely smiles."

  Velvet laughed and woke herself up. It took only a moment for her to realize where she was. A sigh of re­gret escaped her lips as she realized that luxuries such as governesses were long gone.

  Her father's days of glory, when the late King Charles had given him command of the royal forces in the north, had not lasted long. The Earl of Newcastle had failed in his siege of Hull and his troops in Lin­colnshire were destroyed by Cromwell. When Prince Rupert, in command of the Royalist Cavalry at Marston Moor, suffered defeat, King Charles lost the north to Parliament. Newcastle had fled with his fam­ily to France, where they had stayed at the opulent French Court of Versailles for a time, but for the past dozen years had lived at the impoverished English Court of Saint-Germain with the other exiles.

  "Though I'll be a woman of twenty next week, my clothes are those of a young girl." Velvet looked down at her ankles, which were no longer covered by the gown she'd donned. I'll let the hem down, but that won't solve the tightness across my breasts. She felt guilty about needing clothes when her mother hadn't had a new gown in a decade.

  Sadness clouded Velvet's thoughts. Her mother grew thinner and looked more wan by the week. She was wasting away. She had a chronic cough and was often racked by spasms. "I'll take breakfast with Mother and make sure she eats." Velvet picked up an astrology book to take along. When she has her sieste this afternoon I shall go outside and watch for Father. Surely he will return from the coast today.

  * * *

  Bruges, Belgium

  Charles Stuart, held fast by Morpheus, was in the midst of a sensual dream. He'd been in so many beds in his years in exile, the females all blurred together. Except the first. The lady had seduced him and he often had a recurring dream about her.

  Charles lifted heavy lids and smiled uxoriously. The soft breasts cushioned upon his chest made his cock stir. His hands came up to caress a pair of lush bottom cheeks. "Bonjour, my beautiful lady, I am yours to command."

  The Duchesse de Chatillon traced the prince's long nose and sensual lips with a fingertip. "You are insatiable."

  The corner of his mouth went up. "I am eighteen."

  "That explains everything... that and your Medici blood." She shivered. "Your Italianate swarthiness excites me."

  "My lovely liar—I know what excites you." He lifted her onto his rigid weapon and drove it home. When he was sheathed to the hilt, and her cries of pleasure filled the air, he rolled her beneath him and rode her until the curtains of the bed billowed from their gyrations.

  Sated, she reclined and watched him dress. Her hooded eyes showed the triumph she felt over being bedded by a royal prince. Her seduction had succeeded where all her ri­vals' had failed.

  Though Charles's clothes were immaculate, his shirt boasted no fine lace and the cuffs of his brocade coat were frayed. He combed his fingers through his long black love­locks to rid them of tangles and reached for his hat. "To­night, ma belle?"

  "Ah, non. I think it politic that I reconcile with my hus­band. The Due de Chatillon returns today."

  Charles bowed gallantly. He felt used and slightly more cynical than he had yesterday, if that was possible.

  Charles awoke with a start. He was alone, the shabby chamber was small, and the fire had burned to cold ash. "Lord God, I hardly knew what cynical was at eighteen." Since then, it seemed everyone in his life had tried to use him and many had succeeded. His ef­forts to return his father to the throne had ended in miserable failure. Parliament had executed his father, and for nine years Charles had been a king without a country.

  He had seized every opportunity to regain his Crown, even sailing to Scotland to lead the Covenant army Argyll had raised. He fought battles from the Border all the way to Worcester, where Cromwell de­feated him with an army of thirty thousand paid for by a heavy burden of taxes imposed on the people of En­gland.

  Charles, barely escaping with his life, found that neither France nor Holland would have him back. His small Court now lived in Bruges, Belgium, territory owned by Spain. In order to survive he had learned to vacillate, prevaricate and make his decisions in the se­cret recesses of his own mind. He had learned to his cost that the advice his courtiers gave was often to their own advantage.

  He slipped from the bed and donned a darned linen shirt and breeches. He knelt at the hearth to kindle a fire and then put a few coals on it. He sat down at the table and pushed aside the bills; his debts were insupportable. His fists clenched in angry frustration as he reread the letter from King Philip of Spain. Charles had gathered a force of Irish and Scots Royalists, and Spain had promised to supply ships and money for an invasion that would regain his Crown. Now Spain had reneged, claiming its treasury was depleted from its war with France.

  Charles thought of all the loyal Royalist forces scat­tered about the Border, waiting to join an invasion that would never come. As a soldier and as a king, he felt his heart bleed for them.

  An aide brought him bread and cheese on a plain trencher. He had not tasted meat in a fortnight. Charles smiled and thanked the man graciously. He would not allow his rage to spill out.

  "I love you." Velvet Cavendish tucked her mother into bed and then read to her from their favorite book of astrology until she fell asleep. She closed it softly and left the bedroom.

  Speaking to her mother's servingwoman, she said, "Emma, I promised to visit Princess Minette today. Mother seems comfortable. If she starts to cough, give her the medicine. I'll be back in an hour." Then Velvet hurried through the corridors of Saint-Germain Palace, where the Royalist exiles lived. She went out­side and stood at the gate, searching the road for an approaching horseman. When there was no sign of her father, she went back inside and made her way to the queen's apartments.

  "Velvet! How lovely to see you." The dark eyes of Henriette-Anne, affectionately called Minette, lit up with delight.

  Velvet kissed the young girl's cheek and felt a stab of pity for the dark princess whose thin shoulders were uneven. The poverty she had lived in all her life was pitiable. Her mother, Queen Henrietta Maria, re­solved to maintain the Royalist cause at any price, had sacrificed her guards, maids of honor, carriages and horses. She had been unable to restore her husband to the Crown, but now pinned all her hopes on her son, England's rightful king. Minette's clothes were shabby, her luxuries nonexistent. The princess lived a life of hardship and humility, which few royals had ever endured.

  Minette drew her to a window seat and took out a letter.

  "Is that from Charles ... I mean, His Majesty?"

  "Yes, but it's an old one. I like to keep it with me. Tell me about him, Velvet. I haven't seen him for five years."

  It was a familiar ritual between them. "Charles was the most gallant gentleman I ever met." Velvet's thoughts flew back to the last conversation she'd had with him, when she was fifteen and he'd come to Saint-Germain to visit his mother.

  "Velvet! You are surely the most beautiful lady in France."

  Her heart beat wildly. "Your Highness, you honor me."

  He quickly raised her from her curtsy. "Let's not be for­mal, Velvet. Please call me Charles."

  She smiled and curiosity got the better of her. "Do you miss the French Court?" Velvet knew he lived in an austere apartment at the Louvre, and could hardly believe he pre­ferred the grime of Paris to the opulence of Versailles.

  "Truthfully, no. In the
beginning, since my mother was sister to a King of France, I was naive enough to believe we would be guests. Eventually, it dawned on me that we were refugees—as are all the Royalist exiles," he added with re­gret.

  "It's untenable," Velvet declared. "How do you endure it?"

  "Nay, it is much harder for you. Your family had all its estates confiscated. Remaining loyal to the king cost your fa­ther everything."

  "I blush to think how spoiled I was when we lived in En­gland. At Nottingham Castle, Bolsover and Welbeck Abbey I had scores of servants to care for me, dozens of horses to ride and countless pretty dresses, all of which I took com­pletely for granted."

  "A lady should be spoiled. My heart is heavy that you have no luxuries, but truth to tell, I'm relieved that you're no longer at the decadent French Court. It is an unfit place for an innocent young lady to grow up."

  A bubble of laughter escaped Velvet's lips as she recalled the lessons she'd learned from the courtesans who denuded their bodies of pubic hair and rouged their nipples. She sus­pected they had taught him a lot more than they had her. She'd heard stories of his numerous liaisons, and tried not to be jealous.

  "Leaving Versailles was good for me too. It allowed me to study in Paris. I was voracious to learn shipping and forti­fication and the technicalities of navigation."

  "When part of the Parliamentary fleet mutinied to Hol­land, it was so brave of you to lead the ships against the enemy to save your father's throne. Blockading London from the Thames must have been so exciting!" Her eyes shone with loving admiration.

  "You mustn't make a hero of me, my dear. All my attempts to secure the English throne have ended in dismal failure."

  Velvet's mind came back to the present and she cov­ered Minette's hand. "Charles will never give up! It is written in the stars that one day he will be restored to the throne of England and we shall all go home and live happily ever after."

  Minette took a brush from her pocket. "Will you do my hair and make me some pretty ringlets like yours, Velvet?"

  "Of course." The pair spent a happy hour talking of the dogs and horses they would have when they re­turned to England. Then Lady Margaret Lucas, one of the few remaining noble ladies who tended the queen, came in and put an end to the visit.

  "Good-bye, Velvet. Will you come tomorrow?" Minette begged.

  "I think not, Henriette," Lady Margaret said coldly. "You spend too much time with Mistress Cavendish."

  Velvet knew the woman did not like her. A cutting retort sprang to her lips, but she bit it back and smiled at her young friend. "Perhaps not tomorrow, but soon," she promised.

  When Velvet left the queen's apartments, she de­cided to go outside again to look for her father. Before she got to the front entrance, she saw him striding to­ward her.

  "Who's the most beautiful girl in the world?"

  Her father's voice made her heart lift. "I'm so glad you are back!" Happily, she walked beside him. She knew he'd ridden to the coast to meet a mail packet from England. "I hope your journey was successful."

  With satisfaction he patted the saddlebag he carried. "Most successful, Velvet. Fortune, at last, is smil­ing upon us."

  When they entered their apartment, Emma stood wringing her hands as tears streamed down her face. "Oh, Lord Newcastle—"

  Fear gripped Velvet as she saw the blood on Emma's apron. She rushed to her mother's bedcham­ber, dreading what she would find, as the sobbing Emma blurted out her story.

  "The countess had a coughing spasm Then she hemorrhaged. My dear lord, there was nothing I could do—"

  Velvet stared down in horror at her mother's pale face, and the blood on the coverlet. No, no, please God, no! She cannot be dead.... Father said that Fortune was smiling upon us!

  Chapter 2

  Greysteel Montgomery paced the small cell like a caged wolf. He and his men were imprisoned in the impregnable Castle of Berwick, garrisoned by Gen­eral George Monck and his troops. Today, as he had done for a week, Monck came to observe him.

  Greysteel gripped the bars. "Allow my men to go free, General. They are no threat. They only obeyed my orders."

  Monck, who was built like a bull through his chest and thick neck, stared at Montgomery with bulbous, shrewd eyes. He saw a man who was hardened beyond his years by war, and whose Achilles' heel was the re­sponsibility he shouldered for the men who served him.

  "Such dogged determination. You repeat yourself every day. Why do you think of your men's welfare rather than your own?"

  "They are young, boisterous, used to physical activ­ity. Captivity will be a slow death to them. If you re­lease them, I vow, they will go back to their farms in Northumberland."

  "I will gladly release them"—Monck paused, holding out the carrot—"if you will change sides and fight for me.”

  Greysteel's mouth firmed. "I will never fight for Cromwell. I am a Royalist."

  "Did you know that I too was once a Royalist?"

  "You are a turncoat?" Greysteel's voice dripped con­tempt.

  Monck ignored the taunt. "I was a prisoner in the Tower of London. Two years felt like a lifetime. Then I was given the choice between rotting in prison or join­ing the Parliamentarians and fighting rebels in Ireland. I took the latter."

  Montgomery's piercing grey eyes stared into Monck's. In your heart of hearts, you must hate Cromwell. "I only know of your Scottish service, General. You re­cruited the Coldstream Guards, a great fighting force who are a credit to you."

  "Then join us, Montgomery."

  Greysteel shook his head. "My loyalty is pledged to Charles."

  Over the harsh winter months, whenever Monck re­turned from Edinburgh, he continued the exchanges with Captain Montgomery, extending the offer and being refused. The meager rations and the cold were not the hardest part for Greysteel to tolerate. It was the close confinement that was far more difficult to bear, and the thought of his young soldiers being caged up nearly drove Montgomery to the edge of his endurance.

  One morning he heard from the guard that one of his men had hanged himself. Greysteel was immedi­ately covered with guilt and blamed himself for the boy's death. The next time Monck came to Berwick, Montgomery was ready to relent.

  "General, extend the choice to my men. If they agree to join you in exchange for their freedom, I make no objection."

  "And you will lead them?"

  Greysteel was incredulous. "Nay, General. How can you ask? You know I am pledged to Charles Stuart."

  "Without your men behind bars, I have no leverage with you."

  Two days later a guard unlocked Montgomery's cell, shackled his wrists and delivered him to Monck's office. Greysteel, wary as a wolf scenting a trap, re­mained silent in hope that the general would play his hand first.

  Monck came from behind his desk, peered out the door as if to make sure they would not be overheard, then removed the manacles. "I have been testing you for months."

  Greysteel held his silence.

  "You have passed the test." Monck took his seat be­hind the desk. "The test of unswerving loyalty"

  For my men's sake, you have no idea how close I've come the last two days to giving in to you. With difficulty, Montgomery forced himself to stand at ease with his arms behind his back.

  "I have need of an agent."

  Greysteel remained silent. You are wasting your time.

  "I believe you would make a good secret agent." When he saw Montgomery shake his head, Monck held up his hand. "I will release your young men back across the Border."

  Greysteel hesitated. "An agent?"

  "You will not work for Cromwell; you will work for me. I hear many rumors—that the people are sick and tired of living under a Protectorate, that they have grown resentful, caught between a military regime and religious fanatics. On the other hand, I hear the English love him so much, they want him to be king. Yet another rumor says that Cromwell is in ill health. I need some­one to take the pulse of England and report the truth. I could trust a man with your nobl
e sense of honor."

  You needed to make sure I'd remain loyal to Charles Stu­art! "You hold the power here in Scotland. Are you saying that under certain circumstances you would put that power behind restoring the monarchy?" A faint glimmer of hope rekindled.

  Monck remained silent for a full minute. "I am say­ing no such thing. I am a cautious man. That is how I maintain a position of power. I need ears and eyes in London. I pledge to you the release of your men. You pledge to me the truth."

  "Married?" Velvet, who had been numb with grief all winter, was jolted out of her sorrow by her father's announcement.

  "Fortunately you are already acquainted. The noble Lady Margaret Lucas became my countess yesterday."

  Velvet recoiled. "How could you replace my mother with a new wife so soon? And why Margaret Lucas, a bluestocking lady-in-waiting, half your age?"

  "Velvet, that is unkind. We will all benefit from this union. Lady Margaret is a young lady of means and it was she who suggested that I appeal to our family in England for funds. With the money Devonshire sent me, I have leased us a lovely house in Antwerp, closer to where King Charles resides. Promise me you will do your utmost to make Lady Margaret happy?"

  Velvet nodded, her numbness replaced by heartache. The thought of seeing Charles again was the only grimmer of hope in what she viewed as an in­tolerable situation.

  The stylish house in Antwerp had once belonged to the famed artist Rubens. It had all the luxuries, includ­ing servants, a carriage house and riding horses. Lady Margaret spent her time writing plays and encouraged her new husband to compile his equine wisdom into a book on horsemanship.

  From the moment they moved in, the new countess was critical of her stepdaughter. Each day when Velvet came downstairs, Lady Margaret made a point of voic­ing her disapproval.

  "Your clothes are a disgrace. Why did you choose drab grey for your new gown? You have no apprecia­tion that your father is an earl and has provided you with this lovely home. You show little respect for me, the plays that I write or the literary guests we enter­tain. All you care about is galloping your horse like a madwoman, allowing that untidy red hair to fly about." She smiled with malice. "I shall ask your fa­ther to curtail your riding, Elizabeth."