The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins Read online

  The guard tapped his swollen jaw. ‘Yours is healing well. But you’re a young man.’ He grinned, revealing a fresh gap in his teeth. With his flattened nose and old smallpox scars, his face was a brutal sight, but he seemed friendly enough. ‘Budge,’ he said, holding out his hand.

  I shook it. ‘Am I in trouble, Mr Budge?’

  He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Up to your neck, Mr Hawkins.’

  Chapter Seven

  As we reached the entrance to St James’s Palace, Budge ordered me to lie on the floor and threw a coarse wool blanket over me. It stank of horse. There was a short exchange with the guards, and then the carriage rolled forward again, rattling across a large courtyard. The horses made a sharp turn and we rolled to a halt. I felt a tap on my shoulder. ‘Wait here.’ I began to sit up, but Budge pushed me back with a sharp prod.

  I lay cramped in the dark, trying my best to prepare myself for my unexpected appointment with the king’s mistress. What in heaven was Mrs Howard thinking, to smuggle me into the palace in such a fashion? She must be quite desperate. The thought made me uneasy. She may not have the power to help Mr Gay find a suitable court position, but I had no doubt she could make my life uncomfortable if she chose. As if it were not uncomfortable enough, lying beneath a horse blanket in the freezing cold.

  I shifted position, then winced as the hilt of my sword poked against my hip. Deep in my pocket, my silver fob watch ticked softly. It had been a gift from Samuel Fleet. What would my old cell mate make of all this business? Why, he’d be delighted of course – perfectly thrilled. Fleet had lived for trouble. Died for it too.

  How late was it? How much time had passed? It was too dark to read my watch. I couldn’t risk waiting much longer – I must reach Kitty and flee the city with her tonight. Perhaps I should leave now, escape into the dark city streets. But how would I explain myself to the guards at the gate house? How would they react if they discovered me creeping through the king’s palace with a sword at my hip? Knowing my luck, they’d charge me with treason and burn me at the stake.

  Footsteps. I shrank beneath my blanket, but it was only a groom, come to free the horses and lower the shafts. The carriage tilted and I slid along the floor, cracking my ankle bone against the seat. I uttered a low curse. The footsteps drew closer. A lantern flared at the window, flooding the carriage with light. I lay still, holding my breath for a long, tense minute. Then the carriage darkened and I was alone again.

  Another hour passed before Budge returned. By now I was quite sober and my head was pounding. I threw off the blanket and stumbled from the carriage, stretching my aching limbs and back.

  ‘Too tall,’ Budge observed, as if I might want to rectify the problem. ‘Apologies for the wait. The king. Speechifying.’

  We moved quickly through the stables, the horses stamping and snuffling in the dark. The courtyard beyond was lit with lanterns and torches, bright after my long vigil in the dark. I blinked up at the rambling maze of red brick buildings that formed the palace, marvelling at it all. In spite of my misgivings, I could not help but feel a flicker of excitement.

  We crossed the yard, pausing in the shadows as a couple of footmen rushed by with lanterns. When all was still again we turned towards a discreet, unguarded side door. Budge unlocked it and beckoned me forward.

  ‘Quiet now,’ he breathed, though we had not spoken a word since I left the carriage.

  The corridor beyond was very dark and we had no light, so we were forced to stretch out our hands and brush the walls with our fingertips to guide the way. The walls were smooth and dry. I’d heard St James’ was a crumbling, dank old place but it seemed solid enough to me.

  My foot grazed against something in the dark and I scuffled forward, almost colliding with Budge. He gave a tiny hiss of annoyance. Sam would be silent down here, I thought. All this time I’d been giving him lessons – I should have asked him to teach me some of his own tricks. After a few moments I caught a dim light ahead. We had reached an old back staircase, bowed from the heavy tread of servants labouring up and down. Candles flickered low in their sconces.

  On the first landing we passed a fine porcelain chamber pot, the lid left carelessly askew. I wrinkled my nose at the stench. We must have reached the living quarters. So – I was to meet Mrs Howard in her private rooms, with a pounding headache and stinking of horse blanket. Excellent.

  At the top of the stairs, Budge relieved me of my sword and dagger, then led me into a small antechamber. The walls were covered with tapestries and silk hangings that shone softly in the candlelight. Silk rugs covered the burnished oak floors. A tall cabinet held a collection of books bound in green leather and embossed with gold. The room was so rich and opulent – and such a contrast from the back stairs we’d just climbed – that it took me a moment to breathe. And all this for the king’s mistress. Perhaps Mrs Howard was in better favour than Eliot thought.

  Budge knocked on a door at the far end of the room and disappeared into a second chamber, leaving me alone. I took the opportunity to practise my speech, pacing the rug with a soft tread. ‘Lady Howard – I trust you are recovered from your ordeal. I was honoured to come to your aid, my lady – but I regret that I am now caught in troubles of my own . . .’ I faltered, and stood still, a question forming in my mind.

  How had she found me?

  I had not given her my name. She had scarcely seen my face in the dark. Enough to say, what? That I was a young gentleman. Long-limbed. Dressed in a black suit and red waistcoat.

  So. How had she found me?

  James Fleet. It was the only possible answer. Mrs Howard had hired him, after all – using Budge as her messenger, no doubt. Fleet must have given my name to Budge and told him where to find me. That was unsettling.

  And now I began to suspect that there was a deeper game being played here. My task had been to meet with Mrs Howard that night and hear her story, no more. So how was it that I found myself being smuggled into the king’s palace in the middle of the night?

  I had no time to think further on the matter. Budge reappeared, followed by Mrs Howard. She was dressed in a rose-pink gown fitted close to her waist, a short strand of pearls at her throat. Her thick chestnut hair was tied in a simple knot and decorated with a piece of lace. She must be nearing forty, but she seemed much younger – blessed with a fresh complexion and a graceful figure. And very pretty indeed.

  I bowed low. ‘My lady.’

  She inclined her head. The terror of the attack in the park was long buried – her expression was mild, her blue eyes steady. I’d heard that her nickname at court was ‘The Swiss’ because she remained always calm and neutral, both in her appearance and her opinions. The Swiss. It suited her.

  ‘Mr Hawkins. How kind of you to come.’ Her voice soft and seemingly quite sincere. But she was a lady of the court. She must have had a good deal of practice, seeming sincere. She held out a slim, gloved hand. I bowed again and kissed it. As I stepped back, I searched for the woman I had seen in the park. But this Henrietta was quite composed, her smooth features set in a polite mask. Was this what pleased King George? A pretty bauble, bland and sweet. Well, he was said to be a dull sort of fellow.

  ‘How brave you were,’ she said, eyes brightening with admiration.

  I decided she was not quite as bland as I had first thought. ‘It was an honour to serve you, madam.’

  ‘There are few men fearless enough to stand against my husband in his rage.’

  ‘Your husband!’ I cried, before I could stop myself. That monster was her husband? I could scarce believe it. I tried to remember what I knew of Charles Howard. He’d been a servant to the old king, I thought. A drunken rake by all accounts, with a cruel temper . . . but I had not realised how cruel. The man I had met in the park had been half-wild.

  ‘I thank you, sir, for saving me from him. I was sure he meant to kill me. He has threatened it before.’ Her voice was quite steady, but as she spoke she folded her hands together. A subtle sign, but one I
had seen at the gaming tables. She was afraid, and fighting with every breath to conceal it. So terribly afraid – even here in the palace.

  She drifted towards a tapestry on the wall. I put my hands behind my back and followed her, playing the gentleman. She had taken so much trouble to hide her feelings, it would be ungallant to expose them. ‘A fine piece,’ I nodded, though I did not care a fig for tapestries. Could I dare hope she had summoned me here solely to thank me? That would suit me very well, if she might hurry it along. Although payment would not go amiss.

  I thought of Gonson, gathering his evidence. I did not have time to admire old needlework, even with someone as pretty and intriguing as Henrietta Howard.

  ‘Madam, I am glad you are recovered. But I am not sure how I may assist you?’

  Her lips parted in surprise. ‘Oh! I have not summoned you here, sir. It is my mistress who wishes to speak with you.’

  ‘Mr Hawkins,’ Budge called across the room. ‘Her Majesty the Queen is waiting.’

  The queen. I knew of course that Mrs Howard was a Woman of the Bedchamber, but had not thought for a moment that it was her mistress who had ordered me to the palace, and under such strange circumstances. I stared from Budge to Mrs Howard in bewilderment. What the devil did the Queen of England want of me? Perhaps I was dreaming. Asleep, dead drunk at Moll’s, with my head upon the table.

  ‘Mr Hawkins,’ Budge prompted.

  There was no time to compose myself. Brushing the horse hair from my coat, I followed Mrs Howard through the door into a larger room.

  Queen Caroline sat on a red damask sofa, knitting. Her pale, straight brows were drawn in concentration as she bent over her work. A heaped plate of candied fruit rested on a table at her elbow. Behind her lay two long sash windows, velvet curtains pulled back. They would offer a fine view of the park in the daytime. Now, the world outside was black and jewelled with stars.

  The Queen of England. This was no dream, but still I could not quite believe my eyes. All the world knew that Queen Caroline of Ansbach was the great power in this family; everyone save her husband. Those famous, mocking lines played about my head. You may strut, dapper George, but ’twill all be in vain, We all know ’tis Queen Caroline, not you, that reign.

  Mrs Howard glided behind her queen, the modest servant, attentive and silent. Budge stood sentinel by the fire. I glanced at him for instruction, but he gazed ahead, shoulders back. Mrs Howard gave a subtle gesture, bidding me to wait. I stood with one leg half behind the other, poised to bow.

  The only sound was the fire crackling in the hearth and the knitting needles clicking back and forth. The queen twirled the wool with her thick fingers and said nothing. There was nothing to do but consider her, and doubtless that was her intent. Let the speechless fool gawp for a while until he regains his senses. Her dress was plain and somewhat sombre – a mantua gown in dark-blue silk matched with a black quilted petticoat. There was a prodigious dollop of black lace fixed atop her head, quite mysterious in its design and almost comical.

  She had once been as fair as her husband’s mistress – fairer, in fact. A quarter-century ago every prince in Europe had wanted her hand. Fragments of her beauty still remained – her thick mane of greying blonde hair bouncing in ringlets down her shoulders, her butter cream complexion. The half-smile that played lazily on her pillow lips. But she had grown stout from childbirth and a sweet tooth. She seemed inflated somehow, swollen to twice the size of her rival, standing quietly behind her. No doubt that was why she wore a mantua, the bodice loose and unboned – not a fashionable style, but a good deal more comfortable.

  ‘Howard,’ the queen said without looking up. ‘Bring me the papers on this boy.’ Her voice was warm and rich, laced with a strong Bavarian accent. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

  Mrs Howard crossed to a writing table piled high with books and correspondence. The queen paused in her knitting and began to count the stitches to herself in French, tapping her finger along the needle. The work was very neat. She gave a satisfied grunt and at last fixed me with a look, holding her knitting to her nose like a woollen veil. A deliberate, playful gesture that somehow merely confirmed her power. The world was hers to play in as she chose. She was chuckling to herself as I made my bow, but I could feel her eyes lashing over me like a whip.

  ‘Oh, mon dieu. Up! Up!’ she said, after I’d bent myself double for a long, back-breaking minute. As if she had not been the one keeping me there. Mrs Howard gave a curtsey and handed a sheaf of papers to her mistress. What a curious, uncomfortable situation for both women. I wondered why the queen allowed it.

  ‘Thomas Hawkins,’ the queen said, rolling my name around her mouth as if it were one of her sugared confections. She opened up a letter and read the first few lines – or pretended to. She folded the letter and dropped it on the sofa beside her. Settled back against a cushion. ‘Well, sir – I hear you fought a great battle in the park. Saved poor Howard from an unhappy reunion with her husband. He is a beast, of course – quite the worst man in England. Mrs Howard has not been as fortunate as I in her choice of husband.’ Her eyes gleamed. She had placed emphasis upon the word choice. Henrietta had chosen to marry Charles Howard.

  The queen glanced at her servant, her husband’s mistress, her once-friend. ‘How long have you been married, Howard? I forget.’

  I doubted that very much.

  ‘Two and twenty years, Your Majesty. I was sixteen years old.’ Mrs Howard’s voice was clear and perfectly composed. But there must be pain somewhere, buried deep. Twenty-two years, married to such a man! How had she survived him all this time?

  ‘Sixteen,’ the queen snuffed, as if that were quite old enough to know better. She skewered me with her gaze. ‘You are not married, sir.’

  ‘No, Your Majesty.’

  ‘No, Your Majesty,’ she mimicked, with surprising skill. ‘God forbid, Your Majesty. Why should I marry my red-haired trull when she opens her legs and her pocket for free?’ She caught my look of dismay. ‘You are surprised I know of this? I surprise myself, sir. I soil my petticoat walking through your sordid little life, hmm?’ She lifted the hem of her gown as if in disgust, revealing a pair of exquisite red-heeled slippers, her plump feet bulging over the top.

  There followed a short pause, while everyone pretended not to be mesmerised by the queen’s feet. And then she dropped her gown, and turned quite serious. ‘Well, Howard. Tell Mr Hawkins of your troubles.’

  Mrs Howard folded her hands. ‘I humbly beg Her Majesty to first permit me to acknowledge the many kindnesses she has bestowed upon her most grateful servant? My pleasing suite of rooms, my position at court, the happy and contented life I lead here full of diverse entertainments and friendships – these are blessings indeed and I am most grateful for Her Majesty’s generosity.’

  The words were spoken with a grave sincerity – and fell from Mrs Howard’s tongue with such fluency I was sure she must have spoken them a thousand times before. To my eye, Mrs Howard did not seem happy nor content, but sometimes words such as these must be spoken, by rote and ritual, to appease those with power over us.

  The queen’s eyes were hooded. ‘You are indeed most fortunate, Howard,’ she acknowledged, ‘in your diverse friendships.’ She waved at her most grateful servant to continue.

  ‘My husband and I are estranged,’ Mrs Howard began.

  ‘Estranged! Aye, as a wolf is estranged from a rabbit,’ the queen interrupted. ‘You must know of course, sir, that Mr Howard was servant to the late king.’

  I nodded. And how extraordinary this was, that such a turbulent, ill-tempered man should fawn about the court when it served him. I knew also – as the whole world knew – that the old king had fallen out violently with his son some years ago and the two courts had been torn in half as a consequence. Some had remained loyal to the king, others had followed the Prince of Wales into exile – a short stroll away in Leicester Fields. Mrs Howard had been an integral part of that secondary court. Had it been loya
lty on her part to leave the old court behind? Or had she simply seized the chance to escape her husband?

  ‘Now he serves no one save himself,’ the queen said. ‘And has no income of his own. He has squandered it all – all of his inheritance, and his wife’s too. Every last penny.’ She dropped a macaroon in her mouth and bit down, closing her eyes in pleasure. Waved again at Mrs Howard to return to her story.

  ‘Mr Howard has made certain demands of His Majesty. And violent threats against me.’

  The queen swallowed the confection, sucking the sugar from her teeth. ‘Demands and threats! Insolent rogue – he is abominable. D’you know, Mr Hawkins, when Mrs Howard was a young woman he abandoned her in some hovel in . . . I fear I cannot even pronounce it. Holl-born?’

  ‘Holborn, Your Majesty,’ Mrs Howard offered.

  The queen threw me a mock-baffled look, as if Holborn might be somewhere upon the moon. ‘Abandoned her to starve along with their baby son, while he rollicked about the town with whores and scoundrels. Mrs Howard grew so desperate she even thought to sell her own hair. But you could not get a fair price for it, could you, Howard?’ She leaned forward, conspiratorial. ‘Mrs Howard is quite famed for her fine chestnut hair.’

  I could not think what to say to this and so said nothing, glancing instead towards Mrs Howard in the hope I might offer some silent expression of sympathy. But her head was tilted in mild contemplation, her eyes cast softly to her feet – as if she were listening to a piece of light chamber music and not the horror that was her marriage.

  And still I wondered: what did the queen want of me? I was beginning to suspect it involved Charles Howard – his certain demands and violent threats. In fact, I seemed to have blundered into a rather devious trap. Easy to miss in such a room, with its velvet curtains, its fine old portraits of grave old men covering the walls. The blazing fire and towering heaps of confectionery.

  ‘The truth is,’ the queen said, ‘I am concerned for my poor Howard. Her husband has always loathed her with a demonic passion but he has kept his temper and his distance for years – I never could fathom why. Now it transpires he was harbouring certain expectations, following His Majesty’s coronation. A position. An income. He has been disappointed in those expectations.’