The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins Page 9

  ‘He blames Mrs Howard for this,’ I guessed.

  The queen bridled. ‘No, sir – fie! I should think not! Mr Howard knows full well – as the world knows full well – that his wife has no influence upon His Majesty. Not this much!’ She pinched her finger and thumb together, allowing no space between them.

  I gave a hurried bow of understanding.

  ‘Mr Howard is determined to create scandal and disruption. He demands that his wife is returned to his . . . shall we say into his custody?’ She nodded grimly to herself. Custody. That seemed a fitting word for it.

  ‘But, forgive me – he cannot crave such a reunion.’

  The queen slid her gaze towards Mrs Howard, and I thought I caught a flicker of fellow feeling. ‘No indeed. Mr Howard is more cunning than he seems. He was a soldier for many years, and a good soldier relies upon strategy more than brute strength. Mr Howard does not want his wife, but in law he may insist that she is returned to him. He has persuaded the Archbishop of Canterbury to write in support of his suit.’ She gave a sour look that made me very glad, in that moment, that I was not the Archbishop of Canterbury. ‘It is all a game, naturally: to cause his wife distress and to force the king’s hand.’

  She paused, quite furious. Half the world knew that Henrietta Howard was the king’s mistress – but it was an unspoken fact that could be ignored by the court and parliament. Charles Howard’s threats to expose the affair in such a public and sordid manner, and to involve the Church, could not be dismissed lightly. At the very least the king would appear ridiculous, at worst, weak and vulnerable. Not a favourable situation, barely six months into his reign.

  The queen, meanwhile, seemed to have recovered herself. ‘Now. I shall tell you a fine tale, sir. It will shock you. A few weeks ago I was working alone, there at my desk, when the door was flung open boof! and Mr Howard burst in, snarling and snapping like a rabid dog. Raving drunk of course – the man is seldom sober. He must have his wife back. He insists upon it. If I do not give her up at once he will drag her from my carriage by her hair the next time we venture out. “Well, sir,” I said. “Do it if you dare.”’ She squared her shoulders at the memory. ‘He stormed up and down, comme ça,’ she pointed with her finger, whisking it back and forth, ‘raving and cursing and threatening to throw me out of the window if I did not oblige him. Well. I informed him that he should do no such thing. But he is in truth so brutal, as well as a little mad, and always so very drunk. And the sash was open. I did half expect to find myself sailing out of the window at any moment.’ She crinkled her lips, amused by the thought.

  ‘Your Majesty! Was he not arrested?’

  She shrugged. This was a private matter. ‘I said, “Why, Mr Howard, we are both rational beings.” I flattered him there, did I not? “Mrs Howard is a loyal and obedient servant and I could not bear to part with her. Let us settle this as reasonable people, sir. Tell me what you desire and be plain about it.” Well, once he had recovered from being called rational and reasonable he presented his demands.’ She took another candied fruit. ‘Three thousand pounds per annum to compensate for his prodigious loss. Else he will seize his wife at the first opportunity and in a most violent and outrageous fashion.’ There was a pause while she ate. ‘The King is not inclined to pay.’

  So much for gallantry. Mrs Howard had been the king’s mistress for ten years. Three thousand pounds was a great fortune – but the king could afford to pay it if he wished. Instead he was prepared to let her live in constant terror, trapped in the palace. I’d heard the king was a miserly man – but this was cruel.

  ‘Poor Swiss has not left her rooms for weeks,’ the queen added, unmoved. ‘And His Majesty is quite furious. He describes his fury to me at great length, every evening. It is an intolerable situation.’ She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she stared directly into mine with a fierce, unblinking gaze. ‘You will resolve it for us, Mr Hawkins.’

  ‘Your Majesty . . .?’ Sweat trickled down my back as the room closed in on me.

  ‘Come now, sir – I did not summon you here to admire your calves, handsome as they are.’ She gave Henrietta a sidelong glance. ‘My dear Howard, you have entertained us with your celebrated wit long enough. Pray leave us.’ She flicked her hand to the door.

  Mrs Howard gave a low curtsey, then two more, and backed from the room without a murmur of protest. I had to struggle not to run after her – flee the room, the palace, the city, without turning my head once. I knew what this audience had become – an interview for a position I did not want and could not refuse.

  ‘You are a trifle pale, Mr Hawkins,’ the queen said. ‘Is it your mother’s Scots complexion, or are you palpitating in my glorious presence?’

  ‘Both, Your Majesty.’

  She smirked. ‘A glass of claret for the boy, Mr Budge.’

  Budge brought me the claret in a crystal glass that sparkled in the candlelight. I drank it gratefully.

  ‘You were a friend of Samuel Fleet,’ the queen said.

  ‘He was my cell mate.’

  ‘He was my servant. Odious, treacherous little man. I was quite fond of him. He resolved a few trifling situations on my behalf.’

  My heart thudded hard against my chest. Fleet had confessed to me – shortly before he died – that he had been a spy and an assassin for many years. He’d also told me that he had collected too many secrets along the way – that he had thus become too useful to kill and too dangerous to keep alive. So he had been thrown in gaol to rot. I’d guessed his master was powerful, that much had been plain. I’d never suspected his master was the queen.

  ‘It is a great pity Fleet died in gaol.’ Her lips tightened at the inconvenience. ‘He must be replaced. His brother believes you might serve.’

  Fuck James Fleet to hell – I should have guessed this was his doing. ‘Your Majesty, I fear I would be a grave disappointment—’

  ‘—Come now, sir. I cannot abide false modesty. You discovered Mr Fleet’s killer, did you not? And you fought off Mr Howard unaided. Have you not realised you were being tested that night? Well. Perhaps that is disappointing.’

  ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty . . .’ I fell silent, gathering my thoughts. Mrs Howard had not arranged the meeting? No – of course not. It had been a bold move to engage James Fleet and organise a secret assignation in the middle of the night. Mrs Howard was not a bold woman. The queen, on the other hand . . .

  She smiled. ‘I was curious to see if Mr Howard’s threats were genuine. So we fixed his wife to a hook and dangled her in front of him. Fleet’s brother ensured that Howard learned of the meeting. I must say we did not expect events to turn quite so violent. Poor Budge lost a tooth. And he had such a charming face.’

  Budge gave a lopsided grin.

  ‘I have grown tired of Mr Howard’s insolence. Samuel Fleet would have resolved the matter in a heartbeat.’

  I thought of the deal I’d made with James Fleet – his promise of one simple meeting, a chance to earn my own money. He had known all along that Charles Howard would attack Henrietta’s carriage. Had known too that I was being tested to replace his late brother as the queen’s private spy.

  ‘I am not Samuel Fleet, Your Majesty.’

  ‘No indeed,’ she laughed. ‘Let us be kind and call Mr Fleet an eccentric.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘And a little too clever. You, Mr Hawkins, are just clever enough.’

  It was not the finest compliment I had ever received. But under the circumstances, I had to agree with her. If anything, she was being generous.

  The queen picked up a sheet of paper. ‘Mr Howard must be stopped. Here is a list of his favourite taverns. Gaming houses. Brothels.’ She handed the list to Budge, who handed it to me.

  A hollow feeling grew in my chest. ‘Your Majesty. I cannot . . . I am not an assassin . . .’

  The queen looked astonished. ‘For shame, sir! I am not asking you to murder the man – what an extraordinary notion. He’s the brother of the Earl of Suffolk. You must befriend him
, Mr Hawkins.’

  Befriend him? I thought of Howard tearing at my throat, snarling in fury. Upon reflection, perhaps murdering him was preferable.

  ‘Once you are on friendly terms, he may let down his guard. You must learn his secrets. Some weakness we might use against him. Seek him out, Mr Hawkins. Apologise for your encounter in the park. Earn his trust. Encourage him in his most bestial behaviour. He knows you are a violent man – he’ll appreciate that.’

  ‘Your Majesty, I am not in the least violent.’

  She plucked another letter from the pile. ‘From Sir Philip Meadows. You stayed at his lodge last autumn, I believe. He says you were a charming guest . . . until you broke a man’s nose.’

  I gritted my teeth. ‘I was provoked, Your Majesty.’

  The queen’s eyes glittered. ‘And were you provoked when you shot a man dead, out in Snows Fields?’

  She held my gaze. There was a dark, almost eager smile on her lips. The smile of a woman who has just slid a blade between a man’s ribs – softly and with great precision.

  ‘That . . . I was forced to defend myself.’

  ‘The first shot saved your life, of course. But the second?’ She tapped the spot between her brows. Where Kitty had aimed and fired. ‘What do you think, Budge?’

  ‘He must have stood over him, Your Majesty. Reloaded his pistol. Shot him right between the eyes.’

  ‘Murder, then.’

  Budge threw me an apologetic glance. ‘Your Majesty.’

  The blood was pounding in my ears. I stayed silent, breathing hard. I couldn’t trust myself to speak. Any word could be a betrayal.

  The queen leaned forward. ‘Do you deny this story? That you shot and killed a man last autumn, out on Snows Fields?’ Her voice was soft – almost tender.

  I swallowed, mouth dry. The fire crackled and sparked. On the mantelpiece, a gilded clock struck the quarter hour. ‘No, Your Majesty. I do not deny it.’

  There was a long, heavy pause. And then she smiled. Somehow – miraculously – I had given the right answer. The queen studied me closely, as if I were some new addition to the royal zoo. Then she lifted a final paper from the pile – a short note clearly written in haste. ‘Budge has been gathering information on you for some time. This message came to us two hours ago. There is a warrant planned for your arrest at dawn tomorrow, for murder. There is a witness. A disreputable one,’ she conceded. ‘But your neighbour swears he heard you confess to it.’

  Burden. ‘Damn him!’ I cried, forgetting myself. ‘That is a lie!’

  ‘I should hope so,’ the queen replied, amused by my outburst. ‘I should hope you are a good deal more discreet than that, Mr Hawkins. We shall send word to the magistrate to destroy the warrant; Budge will arrange that tonight.’

  I bowed deeply. ‘Your Majesty. I am in your debt.’

  ‘You are indeed.’ The queen pinched her lips. ‘Be sure to repay it, Mr Hawkins. His Majesty is vexed by this tiresome business. And when my husband is vexed we all suffer. You will find something for us, to stop Mr Howard’s threats. Within the week.’

  I bowed again in understanding. She did not say it, but the implication was perfectly clear. If I did not solve the king’s vexing problem in the next few days, I could expect no further protection from Gonson and his arrest warrants. There was just one thing I couldn’t fathom. I hesitated, afraid I would cause offense. ‘Your Majesty. Mrs Howard . . .’

  ‘You wish to know why I go to this trouble to protect her? Why not let her vile husband drag her from the palace by her fine chestnut hair, hmm?’ She looked away towards the fire. In profile she was suddenly more striking, with her long neck and strong features. I could see it now, how beautiful she had once been. ‘I have grown accustomed . . .’ she began. Paused. ‘It is a comfortable arrangement. Howard is discreet. Modest. And as I say – quite without influence.’ A small, satisfied smile.

  I remembered what Eliot had said about Mrs Howard – how friends such as John Gay had hoped for preferment when the king came to power last autumn. And how it had transpired that she had no sway with her lover at all – after all those years of service. It must have been a humiliating blow. And a triumph for her rival. How many hours had the queen devoted to securing such a complete victory?

  The queen was a pragmatic woman. If her husband must take a mistress, let it be someone as passive and powerless as Henrietta Howard. She was beautiful, yes, and charming. But the king would never turn to her for advice, and that suited the queen very well.

  ‘It would be tiresome to train a new servant.’

  The queen agreed, pleased by the careful dance we had taken about the subject. She gathered up all the papers she had collected on me and handed them to Budge, who threw them on the fire. She rose slowly to her feet and held out her hand. I knelt and kissed it. She bent down, closer to my ear. ‘I know it was your little trull who fired the pistol,’ she murmured. ‘You must love her very much, to take the blame for murder. To lie to your queen.’

  I kept my head down. ‘Your Majesty.’

  ‘I believe you would do anything to protect her.’ She paused – smiled as I met her gaze. ‘I am glad you have come to my attention, Mr Hawkins. I think you will be a most loyal servant.’

  She waved her hand. I was dismissed.

  Chapter Eight

  Home. I locked the door and leaned against it, closing my eyes with relief. Here in the dark I untied my cravat and slipped a hand beneath my shirt, reaching for my mother’s cross. I was safe – for now. No need to fear a visit from Gonson. No need for a moonlight dash from the city. But for how long – and at what cost?

  ‘Tom . . .?’ Kitty stood at the top of the stairs. She was dressed in an emerald wrapping gown embroidered with silver thread that twinkled softly in the candlelight. ‘You went out at last,’ she cheered, skipping lightly down the stairs. ‘I’m so glad! Have you been drinking at Moll’s all evening? You must—’

  I pulled her into my arms and kissed her, long and deep. A moment’s surprise and then she flung her arms about my neck. I pushed her gently against the wall and kissed her throat, her jaw. ‘Angel,’ I murmured, cupping her face as I kissed her again.

  She snatched off my wig, my coat, unbuttoned my waistcoat. Drew me closer. My sword clattered to the floor. I ran a hand under her gown to find her naked beneath. Felt myself grow hard. I moved my hand higher and she moaned softly, guiding me. There. No. There. ‘Tonight,’ she whispered, biting my ear. ‘Tonight, Tom.’

  Yes, yes, tonight – why not, damn it? After all that had happened, why wait another moment? I was tempted to take her there in the hallway, but I wanted her in bed, the first time. I gathered her up and carried her to our room, while she giggled with surprise. Dropped her down on the bed and knelt over her, unwrapped the gown so she lay naked beneath me. Just her necklace, with Fleet’s gold poesy ring hung upon it. I paused, just for a moment. Then I pulled off my shirt and lowered myself over her. I traced my tongue across her breasts and then lower, lower. She shuddered and arched her back, gasping with pleasure. She was mine, she was mine – and no one would ever take her from me.

  She pulled me back up the bed, eyes heavy with desire. Slid her fingers down and unbuttoned my breeches. Hesitated. ‘My hands are cold,’ she said, blowing on them.

  I took them between mine and chafed them together roughly. ‘There.’

  She stared down at my knuckles, bruised and bloodied from pummelling Burden’s door. I had almost forgotten. And I had told the queen I was not a violent man. Kitty sat up slowly. ‘What’s this? You were in another fight?’

  ‘With a door.’ I reached to kiss her.

  She pushed me away.

  ‘Sweetheart . . . it means nothing. Come here.’

  She drew her legs up to her chest, wrapped her arms around her knees. The cold chill of disappointment seeped over the bed. Again.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I sighed. ‘I drank too much punch and scraped my knuckles, that is all. There’s no need to
make such a damnable fuss.’

  Kitty, it is fair to say, did not agree with this assertion.

  Exile, then. Cast out of my own warm bed. Most certainly not tonight, Tom. I stamped upstairs, shirt and blanket under my arm, scowling to myself as if I were the injured party. As if I had not in fact kicked and beaten at our neighbour’s door and waved my sword in his face in front of the entire street. Damn Kitty. Damn her stubbornness and her temper. Damn the world and everyone in it.

  At least there was a spare bed at the top of the house, in Jenny’s old room. I placed the candle on the chair by the bed, threw on my shirt and huddled beneath the covers, seething to myself. There had been no fire lit in this room for days and the walls felt damp to the touch. A crack in the window let in a thin draught, sharp as a blade. Even with an extra blanket, I couldn’t stop myself from shivering.

  Anger boiled through me. I should leave – storm from the house to the nearest bagnio. Find myself a wench who wouldn’t ask anything of me, wouldn’t expect anything of me save a coin or two. A merry, easy jade who would be grateful to share a bed, skin against skin in the night.

  The candle fluttered then righted itself. Oh, God help me. I was coupled to the most infuriating girl in the kingdom. And I loved every damned inch of her. I closed my eyes, imagining her in the room below, pacing the floor and cursing my name. And crying, I thought, with a heavy heart. You’ve made her cry, again.

  What if tonight were the night she grew tired of me? The night she realised that I’d only brought trouble to her door? Trouble and an empty pocket. I’d thought I’d lost her once before, and the grief had been intolerable. I would apologise tomorrow. We would begin afresh.