“You’ve mistaken your man, your Grace! I can’t take action against her Majesty—no matter who’s behind it!” Father Scroope was scared; even his plump cheeks quivered. He began to get out of his seat but Buckingham, with a gentle but persuasive hand, pressed him back again.
“Not so hasty, Father, I pray you! Hear me out first. And remember this—you owe your first allegiance to your King!” As he spoke Buckingham looked like all the magnificent selfless patriots of history, and Father Scroope, thoroughly impressed, sat down again. “We do not intend to harm her Majesty in any way at all—make yourself easy on that score. But for the sake of England, the King, my master, and I have devised a plan for getting him another wife. This he can do and have an heir for England in a year’s time if her Majesty will agree to return to the life she once lived and enjoyed—the life of the cloister.”
“I don’t think I quite understand your Grace’s meaning—”
“Very well, then, this is it: You’re her confessor. You talk to her in private. If you can persuade her to make a voluntary retirement from the world, go back to Portugal and enter a nunnery, his Majesty will be free to marry again. And if you succeed,” continued Buckingham hastily, as Father Scroope opened his mouth again to speak, “his Majesty will endow you with a fortune great enough to support you in any style whatever throughout the rest of your life. And to begin—” Buckingham got up and once more he went to take a leather bag from the mantelpiece and handed it to Father Scroope. “You’ll find a thousand pound in there—and that’s only a beginning.” Father Scroope took it, feeling the weight of the money, but politely restrained himself from opening it. “Well, Father—what’s your answer?”
For a long moment the priest hesitated, thoughtful, worried, unable to make up his mind. “His Majesty wants this done?” he repeated, dubiously.
“He does. Sure, now, Father, you don’t think I’d dare act in so important a matter without his Majesty’s instructions?”
“Certainly not, your Grace.” Father Scroope got to his feet, placing the wine-glass on a nearby table-top. “Well—I’ll try what influence I can have, your Grace.” He frowned, shot a quick glance across at the Duke. “But suppose I fail? These gentle little women are sometimes stubborn.”
Buckingham smiled. “You won’t fail, Father Scroope. I’m sure you won’t. For if you do you’ll get no more money—and you’ll give all of that back. And needless to say, if this conversation is ever repeated it will go hard with you.” The relentless glitter in his eyes suggested more than he said.
“Oh, I’m altogether discreet, your Grace!” protested Father Scroope. “You may trust me!”
“Good! Well—go along now. And when you have information send it to me by some random boy you find on the street. Write in it that my new cloth-of-silver suit is finished and sign it—Let me see—” The Duke paused, stroking his mustache. Finally he smiled. “Sign it Israel Whoremaster.”
“Israel! Whoremaster! Your Grace has a nimble wit!”
“Come now, you old villain,” said the Duke, strolling beside him toward the door. “Don’t try to wheedle me. I’ve heard tales aplenty about you and your girls.”
But Father Scroope did not think the jest funny. He looked both angry and worried. “I protest, your Grace! They’re all lies! Damned lies! I’d be ruined if such a tale gained general credit! Her Majesty wouldn’t retain me an hour’s time!”
“Very well, then,” drawled the Duke, bored. “Keep your virginity if you like. Only don’t miscarry in this business. I’ll expect word from you within the week.”
“A little longer, your Grace—”
“Ten days, then.”
He closed the door on Father Scroope and slammed the bolt.
Amber stood listening to Father Scroope.
At the price of fifteen hundred pounds he had just sold her Buckingham’s plot against the Queen. For, whether his Majesty was in it or wasn’t, he had no intention of talking himself out of a comfortable place at Court—if the Queen went into a nunnery he would be left drifting and unprotected in an England hostile to the Catholics. Charles, it was true, had tried repeatedly to gain toleration for all religions, but Parliament hated that policy and Parliament could force obedience by refusing to grant money.
“Good Lord!” she whispered in horror. “That devil’s going to be the ruin of us all! Have you talked to her?”
Father Scroope closed his fat lips smugly, crossed his hands on his stomach and slowly shook his head. “Not one word, your Ladyship. Not so much as one word. And I was alone with her Majesty in the confessional booth today, too.”
“And you’d better not speak one word, either! You know what would happen to you if her Majesty left! Oh, damn that varlet! I wish someone would slit his throat!”
“Will you tell her Majesty?”
“Tell her? Of course I’ll tell her! Maybe he’s paid someone else to talk to her already!”
“I don’t think so, madame. Though I doubt not he will if he finds he’s failed with me.”
At that moment Nan entered softly and beckoned to Amber. Amber started out. “Come on,” she said to him. “The way’s clear. You can go now.”
They left the room and went into a very narrow dark corridor. The two women knew their way but Father Scroope had to feel with his hands along the wall until they came to a door. There Amber and the Father waited back out of sight while Nan opened the door, peeked, and then motioned for them to follow her. Outside they could hear the quiet washing of the river as it came up into the reeds and rushes which grew along the banks. Amber had the same trouble everyone else did who lived on the side of the Palace next the water; the lower floor of her apartments was sometimes invaded by the overflowing Thames.
But Father Scroope had scarcely set one foot out the door when there was a sudden splashing and—so close that it seemed to be almost upon them—the sound of heavy breathing and struggling and men’s voices in low muttered curses. Quick as a jackrabbit, the Father jumped back inside and Amber froze where she was, reaching out to grab hold of Nan’s hand.
“What was that!”
“John must have caught someone snooping,” whispered Nan. She spoke a little louder, just enough to be heard a few feet away. “John—”
He answered, his voice also low and cautious. “I’m here—Caught a fellow hiding in the reeds. He’s alone—”
“Go on,” whispered Amber to Father Scroope, and he streaked out the door and disappeared; they could hear the loud sucking noises of his feet as he hurried away through the mud. “Bring him in here,” she said to Big John, and went back herself into the small room out of which she and Father Scroope had just come.
There she and Nan turned to see Big John come in dragging by the nape of the neck a thin angry little man who still kicked and flailed out with his arms, though each time he did so Big John gave him a rough shake that quieted him. Both of them were muddy almost to the knees and splashed with water. John tossed him into a heap in one corner. He began to shake himself and to straighten his clothes, ignoring all of them with an elaborate pretense of being alone.