Idol Lane, London

Weyland kept the four women in his house in Idol Lane during the three days it took Charles to reach London. Neither Frances nor Elizabeth were allowed to return to their tavern chamber to collect whatever they may have needed from their meagre belongings. Weyland kept them in the kitchen, allowing them only brief trips to the small privy in the side alleyway, and keeping either Jane or Noah at knife point during those trips to make sure whichever woman had gone to relieve herself also returned.

Weyland had been tense and anxious for days. Not merely because Charles was so close, but because he felt he’d left himself vulnerable after he had refused to allow the man to rape Noah, and when she’d then realised Weyland had been the one to heal her back. Since that day he’d barely spoken to her. He was determined, whatever else, to ensure that by the end of this day she would know her master.

The kitchen became a place of silence and a frightful, fearful anticipation. Frances and Elizabeth had no idea what was happening. They knew Weyland for a hard and sometimes cruel taskmaster, but of his greater being and mission they had no knowledge. Jane, normally composed and steady, became far more nervous in her demeanour. Noah was outwardly serene, but her abnormally pale cheeks and bright eyes betrayed her inner tension.

Of everyone, Catling was by far the most calm and collected. She spent her days sitting on a stool in the corner of the kitchen. She played almost constantly with a length of red wool, twisting it this way and that between her fingers. At night she bedded down without complaint, and slept soundly through the night. For the most part, Catling was so quiet that everyone forgot her presence for long lengths of time.

The women spent most hours of the day sitting around the table. Rarely were any words spoken. Certainly no one spoke of the approach of Charles. Frances and Elizabeth might not know the precise who of Charles, and why Weyland appeared so obsessed with him, but Jane had no doubt that they realised something terrible would occur when Charles did eventually enter the city.

What that terror might be, no one liked to think.

Unusually—for Jane, Elizabeth and Frances had grown used to his absences in his strange hidey-hole on the top floor—Weyland spent the greater part of each day with the women, and even checked on them four or five times during each night. His constant presence (or the constant threat of his presence) added yet further to the already overwhelmingly tense atmosphere. By the time the day that Charles was due to enter London dawned, each of the women was so highly strung that she would jump at every noise, however mundane its source might be.

Beyond Idol Lane the excitement in London had grown to fever pitch by the 29th of May. Little work was done. London, as the entire realm, was waiting for its king with great anticipation. The streets were decked with flags and pennants featuring the royal standard, walls were daubed with colourful paint, taverns did a roaring trade (the only business, indeed, that thrived during this time of celebration) and, by the morning of the 29th, people thronged the streets, calling out to each other to ascertain if someone had heard news of when the king might enter the city, and which route through the city he would take.

No one doubted that Charles would indulge both himself and his people with a celebratory parade.

None among the throng had any idea of how much Charles dreaded the day.

“Charles?”

Catharine, like everyone in Charles’ court and considerable entourage, was dressed in her finest apparel; in her case, a stunning gown made of cloth of gold, studded with jewels and laced so heavily about bodice and sleeves that Catharine found it tiring to lift her hand for any length of time.

Charles wore only breeches and a doublet (to be complemented later with a hat), but, oh, those breeches and that doublet. The breeches’ material was black velvet, embroidered about waist and hip with golden threads and seed pearls. His doublet was of a stunning pure silver fabric, the finest lace seeded with rubies and diamonds at throat and wrists. It looked splendid even if, as Catharine knew, it was horribly uncomfortable to wear. From his left hip swung a golden sword, scabbarded in jewels and finery.

The expression on Charles’ face did not match the splendour of his clothes.

Charles and Catharine were alone for a few brief minutes before they joined the huge procession awaiting them outside the house. It was almost the only time they had to themselves this morning, for barely had they awoken before their bedchamber was filled with the bustle of servants and courtiers, set to prepare their king and queen for the great day.

“Charles?” Catharine said again, placing her hand gently on his arm.

“Something terrible shall happen today,” he said. “There is such a darkness over this land…”

“Noah will survive,” Catharine said. “She will. Weyland won’t kill her.”

“I can feel it,” Charles said, ignoring Catharine’s reassurances. “Something dark. Something malevolent. Damn it, Catharine, all I want to do is to sneak into London in disguise and—”

“You know you cannot do that. Weyland expects you to ride glorious and triumphant into London, and thus, this you must do. You must act out your part, Charles, or else—”

“I know, I know,” he said. “But, oh gods, Catharine, I—”

The doors at the far end of the chamber opened, and James and Louis entered the room, almost as splendidly dressed as Charles and followed immediately by a gaggle of velveted and gilded noblemen.

“Do what you must, Charles. Do it for Noah,” Catharine said hurriedly, then she stood back and put a smile on her face as the group reached them.

As she met Louis’ eyes, Catharine saw there the same terror she felt in Charles. Nausea suddenly overcame her, and she lowered her eyes away from Louis lest she lose what little breakfast she had taken.

“Majesties,” said the Earl of Clarendon, bowing deeply. “It is time to depart.”

“London awaits,” said Louis, and his eyes locked into those of Charles.

London awaits.

The tension inside the kitchen of the house on Idol Lane was palpable. Noah, Jane, Frances and Elizabeth sat at the table, each woman sitting with her hands resting flat on the wooden boards of the table top, each pale, each with eyes that flitted about the room, each listening to the dim roar of the crowds that throbbed in the streets beyond Idol Lane. Catling had retreated to a far corner of the kitchen.

Weyland leaned against the doorframe, his eyes never leaving the women. He appeared relaxed, but Weyland was as tense as everyone else.

He was also feeling torn. He knew what he had to do. Knew he had to do it. Charles had to be intimidated with the most powerful weapon at Weyland’s disposal, and that weapon was Noah.

Weyland knew he had to act fast, and he had to act decisively. He had to give Charles a very, very good reason to stay away from the kingship bands, and to behave himself until Weyland managed to get his hands on them.

“Today,” Weyland whispered very much to himself, “I hand to you that reason, Charles.”

Yet every time he looked on Noah his stomach knotted, and he silently cursed his weakness.

The procession which led King Charles II into London was almost twenty-thousand strong. It consisted not merely of Charles and his immediate household, but of several thousand noblemen, the bejewelled Lord Mayor and the aldermen of London, the ambassadors of a score different countries with their own personal trains, several hundred velvet-cloaked gentlemen from the London guilds, red-cloaked and silver-sleeved sheriffs’ men, courtiers, servants and livery men dressed in a uniformity of either purple or coats of sea-green and silver, as well as thousands upon thousands of horsed and foot soldiers who wore silver sleeves and scarves to complement their buff coats and shining helmets. Add to that the maidens who were to dance at the head of the procession, the jesters, the tumblers, the sword players and the dogs and children and stray pigs that would inevitably attach themselves to the procession, and all who thought of the logistics of the situation knew that it would take the king many long hours to wend his way from his entry via London Bridge through the ancient city and around the curve of the Thames into the precincts of Whitehall and Westminster.

The shouting began the instant word spread that the king’s horse had set hoof onto London Bridge.

The king was home!

“He’s back,” whispered Weyland, finally straightening in his doorway.

Jane and Noah glanced at each other, overcome with dread.

Weyland walked very slowly to stand behind Noah and Jane. He raised his hands, hesitated, clenched them as if to stop them trembling, then rested a hand on each of their shoulders, feeling their bodies go rigid. He truly only needed to do this to Noah, but Jane’s torment would be just as useful to him.

And besides, those imps would be more useful on the streets of the city than lurking within the women’s wombs.

“Brutus has returned,” Weyland said. “Listen to the roar of the crowds! Imagine the fuss, the excitement, the glory. But do you know what? Eh? Do you know the truth of this magnificent, mighty day?”

He waited for an answer and, receiving none, tightened his hands.

“What is the truth of this magnificent, mighty day, Weyland?” asked Jane in a wooden voice.

“The truth is that today Charles is going to learn just how helpless he is. He will—”

“Weyland, no,” said Noah, twisting slightly so she could look up at him. “Don’t do this, please. There is no need. Surely we can—”

Weyland’s face closed over. “Be silent! Are you truly saying to me you don’t want to rid your bodies of those black-hearted imps of mine?”

There was a terrible silence, both Noah and Jane hardly daring to breathe as their thoughts raced.

No, no, surely not…

At the end of the table, Elizabeth and Frances looked at each other, frowning. Imps?

Noah opened her mouth again, but before she could say anything Weyland’s hands tightened to excruciating claws on both her and Jane’s shoulders, and simultaneously both women screamed, arching their backs, then twisting and falling from their chairs to writhe in torment on the floor.

Weyland lifted his hands away as if he had been scalded, staring at the women. Finally he dragged his eyes away and looked at Elizabeth and Frances, both of whom had leapt back from the table in horror.

“Get some rags,” Weyland said to them. “Now!”