Chapter 7

It was a long-drawn-out death. Rupert partially recovered for the summer but in the autumn relapses became frequent until recovery ceased altogether. When Penitence pulled back the curtains each morning she resented the rumble of carriages and the street-cries, a world persisting in going about its business while its great warrior was dying.

He knew he was. At the beginning of November he made his will. When the lawyers had gone, he was tired and she sat beside his bed while he dozed. He woke up with a start and didn't seem to know where he was. Then he asked: Will you marry again?'

The 'again' nearly undid her. 'No.'

The Earl of Craven, for whom she thanked God, called every day but, apart from him, those who kept the vigil with her were mainly the servants, and her own friends like Aphra and Dorinda, the Reverend Boreham and Apothecary Boghurst, and the dog Royalle, who refused to leave the bedside.

The King didn't attend, though she kept him informed.

On her instructions the secretary wrote to the remaining children of James I's daughter and Frederick V of Bohemia. The Elector Palatinate had just died but in any case had ceased correspondence with his younger brother, furious that Rupert had given their mother's jewels to a mistress — though the only filial support their mother had found in her old age had come from Rupert. Sophie was now the Electress of Hanover, Louise was in a convent, and neither could find time to come.

Only in the bedroom of the house in Spring Gardens did the age of loyalty right or wrong persist while the prince who'd personified it relived it in his confused mind. Weeping, Lord Craven and Penitence hung on to his hands as he tried to wave a ghostly cavalry into battle and shouted orders to long- dead men.

When they'd got him to sleep she would sit and and wait for Craven's remembrances of his friend. They always began: 'You should have seen him. . .' and they always ended with him crying.

You should have seen him outside Bristol. Clad in scarlet and silver lace on his black barbary horse. The "Dragon Prince" Cromwell called him, but he respected him, oh yes, even that rogue respected him. These royal drunkards that command us today, what respect is due to them but ropes to hang themselves?'

Through Craven's eyes she watched the young Rupert and a handful of half-armed Cavaliers scattering the steel hauberks of the Parliamentarians at Powick Bridge, riding against the imperturbable pikes of the London trained bands at the first battle of Newbury. 'Time and again he saved the Cause. Endangered it once or twice, too, but always extricated it again, always. It was not his fault it was beaten.'

She asked the question she had never thought to ask Rupert. 'Why did he settle in England?'

Craven smiled. 'Do you know, my dear, I sometimes think it was for his enemies. He was never a political man, nor did it occur to him to question the Tightness of his uncle's quarrel with Parliament. But he told me once the fortitude of the Roundheads impressed him. Just before the end of the war, he wrote to me that if he rode so he broke his neck, he would not be unhappy that England have his bones.' The Earl was crying again.

If he was reliving his old campaigns, the wounds they'd inflicted reanimated so that he could suffer them again. Every morning and evening when Penitence or Peter soaked the dressings from his legs and head, pus oozed out from flesh that was turning green. Ruperta complained of the smell when Penitence lifted her on to the bed to kiss him and for the first time got a smack from her mother. 'Kiss your father.'

It was only Ruperta who brought something like coherence into Rupert's ramblings. In a lucid period he managed to convey to Craven that his Order of the Garter must be sent to the King with another request for a marriage to be arranged between her and Burford.

Charles ignored it.

On the 27th of November he began to cough. Master Boghurst said: 'It won't be long now. Fetch your sons.'

The boys knelt at the end of the bed, but as the coughing and the night dragged on Penitence had chairs brought for them to sleep on. Only she and Peter stayed awake. In the morning Rupert was still alive.

She lost track of time and place. Sometimes it was Henry King's hand she held, sometimes Dorinda's. Once Her Ladyship's. She dreamed of Awashonks and woke up with a jump and thought that the dark eyes staring reproachfully at her were those of the Squakheag's sachem. They were Peter's.

It was still dark the next morning, the 29th, when Peter's scream set Royalle howling.

Downstairs in the drawing-room the Earl of Craven, as executor, read the will to the household. Rupert had left nothing to his legitimate family. There were bequests to the servants, Dudley got his property in Germany, the rest was left to Penitence and Ruperta 'with his wish,' said Craven, 'that Benedick shall share in his mother's fortune'.

Attached to the will was a special, loving message to Ruperta, which the Earl solemnly read to her in her high chair, that she be a good girl and always obey Lord Craven and her mother.

Penitence was not consulted about the funeral, which was organized by the Earl Marshal. Rupert's body was taken out of the house in Spring Gardens to the Painted Chamber at Whitehall for a lying-in-state and from there to Westminster Abbey for interment.

Two companies of foot led the cortege, followed by Rupert's male household servants, followed by barons' younger sons, viscounts' younger sons, Privy Councillors, eldest sons of barons and viscounts and earls' younger sons, through the panoply of precedence to the officer carrying Rupert's coronet on a cushion in front of the coffin.

The Earl of Craven, in a cloak with a long train borne by two supporters, was the chief mourner. Behind him were more earls and viscounts, Yeomen of the Guard and Rupert's outdoor servants, gunsmiths, Boiler and the other coachmen, and watermen.

Peter should have headed the procession of household staff but by the time the funeral took place he was dead. They'd had to lift him away from Rupert's death-bed and carried him upstairs to lie him down on what turned out to be his own. Penitence had carried food to his room every day and beseeched him to eat but the black man's will had suspended every process which kept his body animated. Oddly, he emanated no grief; just a stubborn refusal to live. His lower lip stuck out as if he were sulking, only retracting when Penitence tried to force a spoon into his mouth.

It seemed vital that he should live; Penitence's bereavement had brought with it guilt that she had never loved Rupert enough or in the way he'd wanted. She hoped he'd not known that she didn't. But I knew. Her sexual pretences she remembered not as attempts to please but as the grubby simulations of a brothel. She'd short-changed him; even now, perhaps, she could make up something of the lack by preserving this, his loved and loving servant. Besides, Peter was woven into the fabric of over ten years of her life and she couldn't bear to lose any more of it. 'Try and eat, Peter. What will I do without you?'

She was holding his unresisting hand and realized it had gone cold. She threw herself on his body, weeping; his death emphasized Rupert's in a way nothing else had; it added to her guilt that she hadn't been able to keep him alive. He'd been so much more loyal to Rupert by dying than she had in living.

'Nonsense,' the Reverend Boreman told her sharply. 'What are you about, woman? Are we heathens that we have to die because our lord does?'

'Peter wasn't a heathen,' she sobbed.

'He was a slave. He didn't want to live any more. Are you a slave?'

Yes. I sold myself. Rupert bought me.

Dorinda was even more contemptuous. 'So he bought you. It was a fair trade; you made him happy. What they want for their ballocking money? Get some sleep, for Christ's sake.'

Women were allowed no part in Rupert's funeral, neither were illegitimate sons - who had not been ennobled. Penitence, Dudley and Benedick watched the service by peering over heads from the public's end of the Abbey nave. They weren't invited to the funeral meats either.

They ate their own at a small gathering in Spring Gardens, mostly of theatre people.

'They could have given you a place at the front of the Abbey,' said Aphra Behn, indignantly. 'Everybody knows how important you were to him.'

'What now?' asked Nelly Gwynn. 'You staying on here?'

'I can't. I'm being evicted.' Spring Gardens was in the King's gift which had been extended only to Rupert. Awdes, which had been leased for Rupert's lifetime, was also closing to her.

'Always got a home with me, Peg.'

'She'll come to St Bride's,' said Aphra.

'She'll bloody come to the Cock and Pie,' said Dorinda.

Becky Marshall also proffered her house. Penitence thanked them all, and promised to visit. 'But for now I'll go to Somerset.'

She was still being tortured by the guilt of the bereaved. I didn't love him enough. Why didn't I take better care of him? Could I have taken better care of him? Somerset was hideously far away from her friends and everything she knew but it was the home Rupert had bought for her and she felt she would be expiating something she owed him if she stayed in it.

'Never mind, Peg,' said Charles Hart. 'It was a fine funeral. Lord, I hope as many weepers line the streets when the Great Prompter calls me. The miles of black under overcast sky. Muffled drums. What theatre.'

'Yes,' said Penitence. 'He'd have loved it.'

On her way out Gwynn said: 'You don't want to bury yourself in the sticks. Get back on the stage, ducky. You've kept your looks and being skinny suits you.'

Rupert didn't want me to go back. She knew Nelly's reaction if she told her that, so she gave another, though equally true, excuse: 'Killigrew won't have me. The King has indicated I'm not wanted.'

Nell Gwynn was apologetic. 'He's a bit miffed about old

Rupert's will, Peg. You mightn't think it, but my Charlie's a great one for legitimate family. He'd have put poor old Catherine away and married somebody with babies in 'em years ago if he wasn't. He can't understand why Rupert left it all to you.'

'Neither can I'

Gwynn looked at her sharply: 'Oh my Gawd. Let's all enter a nunnery.' She had no time for self-doubt, in herself or others. 'He left it to you acause you made him happy. He liked fucking you. That's what it's all about, Peg. Wars and politics don't keep men warm in bed. He got good value for his money.' She patted Penitence's cheek and became brisk: 'James'll be happy enough to have you at the Duke of York's. You stay, Peg. Buy yourself a town-house and a nice young lover. You earned 'em.'

Penitence kissed her. 'I'll think about it, Nelly.'

'Well, don't think too long. Ain't either us of getting younger. And any time you want to sell Elizabeth of Bohemia's pearls I'm in the market.'

When everybody had gone, Penitence took the boys into her drawing-room, sat them down and stood by the fireplace. 'I thought we ought to discuss your future,' she said.

'Have we got one?' asked Benedick. Of the two, he was showing his grief more openly. Dudley was trying to hide his for her sake.

'Well,' she said, 'in view of the King's attitude, your advancement may be delayed. In England at any rate, and for a while.'

'I want to join the army,' Benedick said.

'You want to join any army,' pointed out Dudley.

She'd been afraid of that. And Dudley will because he thinks he ought to be military like his father.

She kept her voice mild. 'I have a suggestion. I have written to the Prince of Orange to ask if you may attend his court for a year or two. He is a relation, after all. He has written back to say he would be delighted.'

Dudley smiled for the first time since his father's death. 'Seeing the world.'

'Fighting the French.' Benedick was on his feet.

No you won't. William had written back to her: 'Had I not known of their connection with my revered late kinsman, 1 should yet welcome the two young gentlemen for your sake. Do not concern yourself, dear madam, that they shall be endangered of body or soul.'

She'd done her own checking. William's furious defence of his country had given Louis XIV pause; for a while at least the Dutch Netherlands were at peace. Reports from The Hague were of Mary's domesticity, visits to the opera and church, garden-planning, home-building.

If the boys didn't break their necks hunting — which they could do just as easily in England as in Holland - their bodies would be safe enough and their souls much safer in his care than tasting the debauchery of Whitehall.

What a fool you are, Charles Stuart, preferring dissolutes to splendid young men like mine and Rupert's.

The boys wouldn't lack money. She was going to share between them the 1,694 guineas that Rupert's iron chest had contained.

The only hesitation she felt in sending them to the Netherlands was caused by a letter in her pocket that minute. It was a polite condolence on the death of His Royal Highness, Prince Rupert. It was signed by the Viscount of Severn and Thames and its address was The Hague.

There was a lot to do. Rupert had left pensions to members of his household who were old enough to retire — and most of them were. Good positions had to be found for those who remained and who didn't want to accompany Penitence into the wilds of Somerset.

To her surprise, the Reverend Boreman and Mistress Palmer were quite prepared to be uprooted again and replanted in Somerset. Boiler, the coachman, and Johannes and Annie, the nursemaid, were also willing to go with her.

Penitence watched almost everything she'd known for the last eleven years go under the hammer during the sale of Awdes' contents. She remained dry-eyed until the last lot, an old hunting mare of Rupert's that had gone blind years ago.

Squire Brewster bid a pound and bought her. 'No, no,' he said with surprising concern for Penitence's anxiety. 'She shall live out her days in high grass. He'd have wanted it so.'

In the spring Boiler drove the last unsold coach through Awdes' gates to take the Great West Road. Inside it were Penitence, Mistress Palmer, the Reverend Boreman, Dorinda, Ruperta and Tongs. On top sat a lot of cases. Beside it ran a large black poodle.

Without anything being formally said, Dorinda had now so infiltrated the household that she and Tongs were part of it. The Huguenot apprentice was successfully running the Cock and Pie Press; MacGregor was longer and longer away in the Low Countries and Dorinda referred to him less and less often.

The arrangement suited Penitence sufficiently for her not to ask questions. Tongs and Ruperta were excellent playmates and, while Dorinda could be a screaming irritant, hers was the down-to-earth voice that saved Penitence from becoming too maudlin in her bereavement.

Behind the coach came a luggage wagon with Annie and Johannes. The outriders consisted of a large troop of the Earl of Craven's musketeers which the Earl had insisted on sending along to see her safely into Somerset: 'Suppose word got out to highwaymen that you were carrying the dear Queen's necklace, Mrs Hughes. No, no, Rupert would never forgive me.'

It seemed to Penitence that the coach would attract a good deal more attention with a troop of outriders than without them; Elizabeth of Bohemia's necklace was assuming the weight of a millstone. On the other hand, it was Ruperta's dowry.

I must find Athelzoy's secret room. Put the damn necklace in it for safety.

It struck her that she wasn't safe any more. Rupert had protected her, her child and her goods but now she could be preyed on - and not just by thieves. Already the King had shown his pique at her inheritance of his uncle's money by banning her from the stage of his theatre. He might positively punish her. Try to marry her off, perhaps. He would be unlikely to defend her against the harassment of men like Charles Sedley.

Penitence worked herself up into such a panic that she felt again, as she hadn't in years, the terror of the night when she'd been pursued along High Holborn. Once again she was a hare and any dogs who cared to were free to run her to ground. Only this time she was even more vulnerable in having a leveret. I'll turn and fight this time. They shan't hurt Ruperta.

'Told you them oysters was crapped,' Mistress Palmer shouted above the rattle of the coach.

Penitence looked across at her. 'What?'

'Them oysters. Back at that last inn. Turned you green.'

'You all right, Prinks?' asked Dorinda. 'You been snuffling.'

She was being idiotic. She wasn't that important; Rupert hadn't left her so much money that she'd automatically become prey to robbers and fortune-hunters. 'I was worrying about the necklace,' she said, 'with all these soldiers, every thief in London will have gathered I'm taking it down to the country.'

'Country?' Dorinda put her head out of the window and regarded the green view unfavourably. 'Tunbridge Wells is country. This is ballocking jungle. Any poor sod of a thief as tracks us down here is going to need a restorative. Where are we?'

'Not far now.' Dorinda was right. If she was a hare, at least she was returning to her forme. She would creep into it. Athelzoy, Rupert's last gift to her, would become a shrine to his memory and she the keeper of its flame, paying the debt she owed him with chastity, devoted motherhood and good works. Sacrificially, she stared out of the window, waiting for the coach to begin its slight climb through secret trees along a winding track

She'd forgotten the driveway that Rupert had ordered to be blazed through those secret trees. Unfinished, it cut a swathe as ugly as if a Titan had scuffed his way through her woodland to get to the house.

But as she looked up towards the Priory, Penitence fell in love all over again. Too exposed, yet built to be exposed, its square gatehouses at this remove resembled outcrops against the lovely rectangle of the hall, while the crazed, inspired

Tudor wings tipped their chimneys like hats to see her back again.

She gathered Ruperta and Tongs to her so that they could stare out. 'We're home, my pippins.' They would be safe here. Deep in Somerset where nothing ever happened. Far away from the epicentre of politics and kings and courtiers.

And at long last she could be virtuous; this was Rupert's true legacy to her, independence. Her body was her own. She didn't have to trade it for food or shelter. For her, the supreme luxury that so few women ever knew - sufficient food in the larder and solitude in her own bed.

No more loving Rupert yet dreading the moment when his ageing hands moved over her skin. Again guilt stabbed her. I didn't love him enough.

Instinctively her head turned to the north in which general direction lay the ancestral home of the Viscounts of Severn and Thames as if she would direct her decision towards it. But I shall atone. I stay faithful to his memory for ever and ever.