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  Amber watched him go, her eyes shining with pride and admiration and the almost breathless excitement she felt. I'm in London! It can't be true but it is. I am in London! It seemed incredible that her life could have changed so swiftly and so irrevocably in less than twenty-four hours. For she was determined that no matter what happened she would never return to Marygreen. Never as long as she lived.

  Wearing Brace's cloak she moved nearer to the fire, reaching out her hands to its warmth, and as she did so she became conscious that there were three or four men sitting over against the diamond-paned casement, drinking their ale and watching her. She had a quick sense of pleased surprise, for these men were Londoners, and she turned her head a little to give them a view of her profile with its delicate slightly tilted nose, full lips, and small round chin.

  At that moment Bruce came back, looking down and grinning at the little man who walked beside him and who reached scarcely to his shoulder. Evidently he was the host, and he seemed to be in a state of great excitement.

  "By God, your Lordship!" he was shouting. "But I swear I thought you were dead! They were here not a half-hour after you'd gone, those Roundhead rogues, and they tore my house apart to find you! And when they didn't they were in such a rage they carried me into the courtyard and flung me into the coalhole!" He made a noise and spat onto the floor. "Bah! Plague take 'em! I hope to see 'em all strung up like hams on Tyburn Hill!"

  Bruce laughed. "I don't doubt you'll get your wish." By now they had come to where Amber was standing and the host gave a start, for he had not realized she was there; then he made her a jerky little bow. "Mrs. St. Clair," said Bruce, "may I introduce our host, Mr. Gumble?" She was relieved that he called her "Mrs." St. Clair, for only very little girls and professed whores were called Miss.

  Amber nodded her head and smiled, feeling that she had now advanced too far in the world to curtsy to an innkeeper But she did have an uncomfortable moment of wondering if the look he gave her meant that he disapproved of his Lordship travelling with a woman who was not his wife. Bruce, however, seemed as casual as if she were his sister, and Mr. Gumble immediately took up the conversation where he had been interrupted:

  "It's mighty lucky you're not a day later, my lord. I vow and swear my house has never been so crowded—all England's come to London to welcome his Majesty home! By the end of the week there won't be a room to let between here and Temple Bar!"

  "How is it you haven't set a crown on your Saracen to pass him for the King? Half the signs we've seen are King's Heads or King's Arms."

  "Ho! They are, at that! And have you heard what they're saying now? If the King's Head is empty—the King's Arms are full!" He shouted with laughter at that, Bruce grinned, and even the men across the room gave out noisy guffaws. But Amber did not know enough of his Majesty's reputation to quite understand the jest.

  The little man took out his handkerchief and mopped at his perspiring brow. "Ah, well, we'll be mighty glad to have him home, I warrant you. 'Sdeath, your Lordship! You'd never think what we've been through here! No cards, no dice, no plays. No drinking, no dancing. My God! They even wanted to make fornication a capital crime!"

  Bruce laughed. "I'm glad I stayed abroad."

  But again Amber missed the point because she did not know what "fornication" meant. Still, she smiled appreciatively and tried to look as though such witticisms were a commonplace to her.

  "Well, enough of this. Your Lordship must be hungry, and perhaps tired. I have the Flower de Luce still vacant—"

  "Good! It brought me luck last time— Perhaps it will again."

  They started up the stairs and as they went they heard the men below begin to sing, their voices roaring out in jovial good humour, off key and untuned:

  "The King he loves a bottle, my boys,

  The King he loves a bowl!

  He will fill a bumping glass

  To every buxom lass

  And make cuckolds of us all, my boys.

  And make cuckolds of us all!"

  At the top of the staircase Mr. Gumble unlocked a door and stepped back to let them go in. The room was of good size and, in Amber's opinion, very magnificent, for she had never seen anything like it before.

  The walls were panelled oak, dark and rich, and the chimney piece was also oak, elaborately carved with patterns of fruit and flowers. The floor was bare and all the furniture was in the heavy florid style belonging to the early years of the century, though the chairs and stools had been covered with thick cushions of sage-green or ruby-coloured velvet, worn just enough to have acquired a look of mellowness.

  In the bed chamber was an immense four-poster bed hung with red velvet curtains which could be pulled at night to enclose the occupants in privacy and suffocation. Two wardrobes stood against the wall for clothing. There were several stools and a couple of chairs, a small table with a mirror hung above it, and a writing-table. One side of the room was filled with long windows and had doors opening onto the gallery, from which a flight of stairs led down to the courtyard.

  Amber stared about her, momentarily speechless, while Bruce said, "It looks like home. We'll take our supper up here— Send whatever you think is best."

  After several assurances that he would furnish anything at all which either of them might require, Mr. Gumble left—and Amber burst suddenly out of her spell. Flinging off the cloak she ran to look out of the parlour windows, down two stories into the street. A group of boys had built a fire there and were roasting skewered chunks of meat in derision of the Rump Parliament; the voices of the men still singing downstairs filtered up faintly through the solid walls.

  "Oh! London! London!" she cried passionately. "I love you!"

  Bruce smiled, tossing off his hat, and coming up behind her he slid one arm about her waist. "You fall in love easily." And then, as she turned about quickly to look up at him he added, "London eats up pretty girls, you know."

  "Not me!" she assured him triumphantly. "I'm not afraid!"

  Chapter Three

  And now at last, when it had seemed that nothing would ever change, he was coming home to England and to his people. Charles Stuart was Charles Lackland no longer.

  Eleven years before, a little band of Puritan extremists had beheaded his father—and the groan that had gone up from the watching thousands echoed across Europe. It was a crime that would forever lie heavily upon English hearts. Exiled in France, the dead King's eldest son first knew that his efforts to save his father had failed when his chaplain knelt and addressed him as "your Majesty." He turned and went into his bedroom to mourn alone. He found himself a king with no kingdom, a ruler with no subjects.

  And in England the mighty heel of Cromwell came down on the necks of the English people. It was now a crime to be a member of the aristocracy, and to have been loyal to the late King was an offense often punishable by confiscation of lands and money. Those who could followed Charles II abroad, hoping to return someday in a happier time. A gloomy piety settled over the land, discouraging much that was essentially English: the merry good humour, the boisterous delight in sports and feasts and holidays, the robust enjoyment of drinking and dancing and gambling and love-making.

  May-poles were chopped down, theatres closed. Discreet women left off their gaily coloured satin and velvet gowns, put away their masks and fans and curls and false hair, covered in the low necklines of their dresses and no longer dared touch their lips with rouge or stick on a black path for fear of falling under the suspicion of having Royalist sympathies. Even the furniture grew more sober.

  For eleven years Cromwell ruled the land. But England found at least that he was mortal.

  When the news of his illness began to get abroad an anxious crowd of soldiers and citizens gathered at the gates of the Palace. The country was in terror, remembering the chaotic years of the Civil Wars when bands of roving soldiers had pillaged through all the length and breadth of England, plundering the farms, breaking into and robbing houses, driving off the sheep and cattl
e, killing those who dared to resist. They did not want Cromwell to live, but they were afraid to have him die.

  As night closed in, a great storm rose, gathering fury until the houses rocked on their foundations, trees were uprooted, and turrets and steeples crashed to the ground. Such a storm could have for them only one meaning. The Devil was coming to claim the soul of Oliver Cromwell. And Cromwell himself cried out in terror: "It's a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God!"

  The storm swept all of Europe, raging through the night and on into the next day, and when Cromwell died at three o'clock in the afternoon it was still desolating the island. His body was immediately embalmed and buried with haste. But his followers clothed a waxen image of him in robes-of-state and set it up in Somerset House, as though he had been a king. In derision the people flung refuse at his funeral escutcheon.

  But there was no one to take his place, and almost two years of semi-anarchy followed. His son, whom the Protector had designated to succeed him, had none of his father's ability, and at last the military autocrats got rid of him—much to his own relief. Immediately skirmishes began between the cavalry and the infantry, between veterans and new recruits, and another civil war between the army and the people seemed inevitable. Despair flooded the land. To go through with it all again —when nothing had been gained the first time. They began to think of a restored monarchy with longing, as their only salvation

  General Monk, who had served Charles I but who had finally gone into service for Cromwell when the King was dead, marched from Scotland and occupied the capital with his troops. Monk, though a soldier, believed that the military must be subordinate to the civil power, and it was his scope to liberate the country from its slavery to the army. He waited cautiously to determine the temper of the country and then at last, convinced that the royalist fervour which swept through all classes was an irresistible tide, he declared for Charles Stuart. A free Parliament was summoned, the King wrote them a letter from Breda declaring his good intentions, and England was to be, once more, a monarchy—as she preferred.

  London was packed to overflowing with Royalists and their wives and families, and if a man existed in all the city who did not wholeheartedly long for his Majesty's return he was silent, or hidden. And the gradual return to laughter and pleasure which had been apparent since the end of the wars took a sudden violent spurt. Restraint was thrown off. A sober garment, a pious look were regarded as sure signs of a Puritan sympathy and were shunned by whoever would show his loyalty to the King. The world did a somersault and everything which had been vice was now, all at once, virtue.

  But it was not merely a wish to appear loyal, a temporary exuberance at the returning monarchy, the joyousness of sudden relief from oppression. It was something which struck deeper, and which would be more permanent. The long years of war had broken families, undermined old social traditions, destroyed the barriers of convention. A new social pattern was in the making—a pattern brilliant but also gaudy, gay but also wanton, elegant but also vulgar.

  On the 29th of May, 1660—his thirtieth birthday—Charles II rode into London.

  It was for him the end of fifteen years of exile, of trailing over Europe from one country to another, unwanted anywhere because his presence was embarrassing to politicians trying to do business with his father's murderer. It was the end of poverty, of going always threadbare, of having to wheedle another day's food from some distrustful innkeeper. It was the end of the fruitless efforts to regain his kingdom which had occupied him incessantly for over ten years. Above all it was the end of humiliation and scorn, of being ridiculed and slighted by men who were his inferiors in rank and in everything else. It was at long last the end of being a man without a country and a king without a crown.

  The day was clear and bright, brilliantly sunlit, perfectly cloudless, and people told one another that the weather was a good omen. From London Bridge to Whitehall, along his line of march, every street and balcony and window and rooftop was packed. And though the procession was not expected until after noon, by eight in the morning there was not a foot of space to be found. Trainbands to the number of 12,000 men lined the streets—they had fought against Charles I but were now detailed to keep the crowds in order for his son's return.

  The signs were draped with May flowers; great arches of hawthorn spanned every street; and green oak boughs had been nailed over the fronts of many buildings. Garlands looped from window to window were decorated with ribbons and silver spoons, brightly polished, gleaming in the sun. From the homes of the well-to-do floated tapestries and gold and scarlet and green banners—flags whipped out gallantly on even the humblest rooftop. The fountains ran with wine and bells pealed incessantly from every church steeple in the city. At last the deep ponderous booming of cannon announced that the procession had reached London Bridge.

  It began to wind slowly through the narrow streets, the horses' hoofs clopping rhythmically on the pavement, trumpets and clarinets shrilling, kettledrums rolling with a sound as of thunder echoing across the hills. The whole procession glittered and sparkled—fabulously, almost unbelievably splendid. It passed in a stream that seemed to have no end: troops of men in scarlet-and-silver cloaks, black velvet and gold, silver and green, with swords flashing, banners flying, the horses prancing and snorting, lifting their hoofs daintily and with pride. Hour after hour it went on until the eyes of the onlookers grew dazzled and began to ache, their throats were raw from shouting, and their ears roared with the incessant clamour.

  The hundreds of loyal Cavaliers, men who had fought for the first Charles, who had sold their goods and their lands to help him and who had followed his son abroad, rode almost at the end. They were, without exception, handsomely dressed and mounted—though all this finery had been got on credit. After them came the Lord Mayor, carrying his naked sword of office. On one side of him was General Monk, a short stout ugly little man, who nevertheless sat his horse with dignity and commanded respect from soldiers and civilians alike. Next to the King he was perhaps the most popular man in England that day. And on the Lord Mayor's other side rode George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham.

  The Duke, a big, handsome, flagrantly virile man, with hair blond as a god's, smiled and nodded to the women in the balconies who flung him kisses and tossed flowers in his path. His rank was second only to that of the princes of the blood, and his private fortune was the greatest in England. For he had contrived to marry the daughter of the Parliamentarian general to whom his vast lands had been given, and so had saved himself. Many knew that for his numerous treacheries he was in disfavor amounting almost to disgrace, but the Duke looked as well pleased with himself as though he had personally engineered the Restoration.

  Following them came several pages, many trumpeters whose banners bore the royal coat-of-arms, and drummers shining with sweat as they beat out a mighty roar. At their heels rode Charles II, hereditary King of England, Ireland, and France, Monarch of Great Britain, Defender of the Faith. A frenzy of adoration, hysterical and almost religious, swept through the people as he passed, and surged along before him. They fell to their knees, reaching out their hands toward him, sobbing, crying his name again and again.

  "God bless your Majesty!"

  "Long live the King!"

  Charles rode slowly, smiling, raising one hand to them in greeting.

  He was tall, more than six feet, with a look of robust good health and animal strength. His physique was magnificent and never showed to better advantage than on horseback. The product of many nationalities, he looked far more a Bourbon or a Medici than he did a Stuart. His skin was swarthy, his eyes black, and he had an abundance of black shining hair that fell heavily to his shoulders and rolled over on the ends into great natural rings; when he smiled his teeth gleamed white beneath a narrow moustache. His features were harsh and strongly marked, seared by disillusion and cynicism, and yet in spite of that he had a glowing charm that went out to each of them, warming their hearts.


  They loved him on the instant.

  On either side of him rode his two younger brothers. James, Duke of York, was likewise tall, likewise athletic, but his hair was blond and his eyes blue, and more than any of the other children had he resembled his dead father. He was a handsome man, three years younger than the King, with thick well-defined dark eyebrows, a slight cleft in his chin and a stubborn mouth. But it was his misfortune that he did not have his brother's instantly winning manner. And from the first they held in reserve their estimation of him, critical of certain coolness and hauteur they discovered in his expression which offended them. Henry, Duke of Gloucester, was only twenty, a happy vivacious young man who looked as though he was in love with all the world and did not doubt that in return it loved him.

  It was late that night when at last the King begged off from further ceremonies and went to his own apartments in Whitehall Palace, thoroughly exhausted but happy. He entered his bedchamber still wearing his magnificent robes and carrying on one arm a little black-and-tan spaniel with a plume-like tail, long ears, and the petulant face of a cross old lady. Between his feet scampered half-a-dozen dogs, yapping shrilly—but at a sudden raucous screech they skidded to a startled halt and looked up. There was a green parrot, teetering in a ring hung from the ceiling, eyeing the dogs and squawking angrily.

  "Dam the dogs! Here they come again!"

  Recognizing an old enemy the spaniels quickly recovered their courage and ran to stand in a pack beneath him jumping and barking while the bird bawled down his curses. Charles and all the gentlemen who followed him laughed to see them, but finally the King gave a tired wave of his hand and the menagerie was removed to another room.

  One of the courtiers thrust his fingers into his ears and shook his head vigorously. "Jesus! I swear I'll never be able to hear again! If there's a man left in London who can use his voice tomorrow—he's a traitor and deserves to be hanged."