The Astrologer's Daughter. Paula Marshall
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drew on, he found himself needing security, his own home—a wife, children around him.
But to gain Latter, find that home, he must betray Celia Antiquis, and Buckingham, clever devil that he was, had thought of the one way to bribe Kit to do for him what he had failed to do for himself. Being Buckingham, he could not fail—he would succeed through Kit.
Kit finished Berkeley’s merry ballad. ‘To all you ladies now on land’, and Celia Antiquis popped into his mind again. The King saw his melancholy and, being a melancholic man himself, had compassion for him. ‘Why, Kit man, what ails thee? Hast taken a fever? Is there none here to please thee, haul thee from the dumps?’ He waved a hand at the assorted beauties sitting or standing in the sun. His queen had accompanied him and held court from a bench beside an urn of unseasonally early flowers.
Kit shrugged and laid down his guitar. ‘Nothing that a game of tennis will not cure, sire.’ And that was true, he knew. Action always dissipated melancholy for, in the violent doing, the mind disappeared and the body took over.
‘Buckingham tells me that you and he hied to the astrologer, Antiquis, yesterday and that he hath invited him here, and his daughter, too. He says that the daughter practises his trade, knows his mysteries. Is that the truth, or Buckingham’s extravagance talking?’
Kit looked at the King, his master. He was wearing a royal-blue coat with a silver sash and trimmings; his petticoat breeches were of a deeper blue and a scarlet garter bound each stocking. He had a spaniel on his lap and toyed with its ears—as he was toying with Kit’s in a different sense.
‘The truth, sire? The maid is as knowledgeable as the father.’
‘And is she fair?’
Kit’s eyes were on Charles again. Was this mere idleness, or had the King the thought that a new sensation might be found in toying with the astrologer’s daughter instead of a noble beauty? Actresses had graced his bed, Nell Gwyn and Moll Davis; why not a maiden from the city streets?
‘Very fair,’ he said at last.
The King began to laugh. ‘Why, I verily believe I have found the cause of Kit Carlyon’s melancholy. And is she chaste, as well as fair, and has she refused Buckingham and looked sideways at the good self? Fie, for shame, you cannot have wooed her properly. Kit Carlyon to be bested by an unknown virgin?’
What to say? For he knew that Charles was truly toying with him, that Buckingham had told him of the bet and all the court were agog to see whether a cit’s daughter could do what the maids of honour could not, and deny Kit Carlyon what he wished.
Kit picked up his guitar again, stared at the scarlet ribbons which decorated it and thought how often its music had helped him to a worthless victory over women whose virtue had long vanished. What true pleasure lay in that?
‘The maid scarce knew that I was with her,’ he said at last. ‘Her eyes are fixed on a greater master than—’ and he dared to say it ‘—than you or I.’
Charles took no offence—he rarely did. ‘And what master is that, good Sir Kit, who is more attractive than any man, even one who wears a crown?’
‘Why knowledge, sire. The lady would be a sage, know the secrets of the universe as well as those of the stars. She wishes that she were a man, able to sit at the meetings of our society and dispute the meaning of our findings with us. She does not see men as lovers, or husbands, I dare swear.’
‘Oh, a rare wench, indeed. When she comes hither I must see her. Arrange it, Kit. I would talk with a maiden who is fair, chaste and does not wish to deal with men but with natural philosophy. Yes, a rare creature, indeed. Go now, but do not forget our game this evening. I would play with someone who does not fear to beat me. I grow weary of “A splendid stroke, Majesty”—“Oh, a fig for my play, you have bested me quite”—and that after I have been given the game!’
Kit watched him go. Charles held out his hand to the Queen as he passed her and Catherine of Braganza, dumpy, with a pleasant monkey face, was only too pathetically glad to take it. She loved her careless husband and was grateful for the crumbs of his attention. She possessed but one thing to hold him, and that was the promise of a legitimate child, but so far the child had not come, nor, some whispered, was like to. Recently she had been ill and in her delirium had thought herself delivered of the wanted children. Charles had been kind to her, but kindness was all she got. It was his love she wanted, and that she would never have.
Kit was thinking on this as he walked back to his lodgings to change to play tennis, and to rest a little. He met Buckingham coming from his quarters which faced the Privy Garden; Kit’s were not far from the tennis court.
‘Well met, Kit. Hath Old Rowley done with thee?’ Old Rowley was the King’s nickname after a notorious goat, given because of Charles’s many loves. Charles knew of it and, in his sardonic way, was amused by it.
‘Not yet. I am to play tennis with him later.’
‘Sooner thou than I.’ Buckingham became confidential, put his arm through Kit’s. ‘I had news today which should give us all pause. They say that the plague is far worse than the Bills of Mortality suggest. That it grows apace and leaves the warrens of St Giles and Alsatia behind and advances towards the City. I should have had old Antiquis perform an election on it.’
‘His daughter said that they forecast that the plague would come this year, and that it would be a great one…’
‘So, that was the burden of the talk. Small wonder that you progressed no further with her than you did if that was all you could think to speak of!’
Kit shrugged. ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘that I may have progressed further than I thought. I am not sure, George, how far I wish to pursue this bet, even though by winning I might gain Latter.’
Buckingham laughed maliciously. ‘Too late, man, too late. The die is cast. The bet is made that you will make the fair Celia no longer a maid.’
Once, Kit would have continued to play further with words, but not today. ‘Did Antiquis say how much time might pass before he brought your answers to Whitehall?’
‘Oho!’ Buckingham laughed again. ‘So hot to see her, Kit, that you cannot wait? He said it might be a week, but should you wish to see her sooner, why, you know the way to the Strand. Her father would welcome thee, so pleased was he that the Court now patronises him. Would his pleasure agree to the surrender of his daughter’s virginity, think you?’
Commonly Kit might have continued jousting with him after this fashion, but today he was uneasy, sick at heart, and did not know why.
‘Oh, I can wait,’ he answered. ‘What was it that the old Roman, Fabius by name, said? That the best generalship draws the enemy on by slow degrees to destroy him utterly.’
‘A soldier’s answer,’ responded Buckingham gaily. ‘Well, I live to see that day, Kit, when she comes and you retreat and retreat so that alone, in enemy country, there is no retreat for her, but only surrender. I do not wish thee well, mind, for I covet thy ring.’
He was gone. Quicksilver in mind and body, a man whom few would trust, but old hardships shared bound him and Kit together. Had he told his friend the truth it would have been that he wished to see her again and soon, if only to find that his memory of her was false—that she was but another woman, after all.
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