‘He has returned to me,’ she said simply. ‘I am the king’s mistress again.’
‘And - that’s it?’ I said desperately. ‘He walks in and claims you, and I am just put aside?’
She gave me a look then of sudden pity - not pity that I felt this way, but pity that I had not understood.
And with a sudden realisation, I did understand.
‘It’s no coincidence, is it?’ I said slowly.
She did not reply.
‘The king had grown bored with you. You needed to find some way of rekindling his interest. Some Another thought
struck me. ‘Are there spy holes?’ I eyed the painted panelling above the bed, the mirrors artfully placed in the corners of the room. ‘Did you tell him when to come and watch? When I would be here? Where to stand, to reinvigorate Old Rowley’s withered yard?’
‘I did not tell him,’ she said wearily. ‘You are wrong about that, at least.’
‘But you allowed others to.’
‘I can’t help it if the palace is full of spies. Carlo, )tou should be pleased at this outcome. Far from being jealous, the king has made it clear that you have his blessing. Not all men would be so understanding. It is a sign of how important I am to him now.’
‘You will be the most loathed woman in the kingdom, if there is another war.’
‘I am not here to be popular. Besides, my children are to be given tides. Litde Charles will be raised as a Protestant. He is to become Baron Settrington, Earl of March and Duke of Richmond.’ She rolled the English ddes off her topgue, savouring each word. ‘Ample recompense for a litde jeering, don’t you think?’
‘Tell me one thing,’ I said. ‘When we lay together - in that bed . . I could hardly bear to look at it now. ‘Was any of that real, or was it all simply to excite the king?’
‘Oh, that was real. You must believe that. It was a greater pleasure than any I have ever felt.’
‘And?’ I dernanded. ‘Surely that means something to you?’
She shrugged.
‘Pleasure is pleasure,’ she said simply. ‘It means nothing. It changes nothing. Enjoyable, yes, but compared with the important things - planning, and achievement, and making ail Europe march to one drum - compared with shaping the world, it is nothing.’
‘Then you don’t love me.’
‘Not as you love me, no. And you know something? I am glad of it. How I would hate to have my judgement clouded by a passion such as that. It is like tennis - when you play for love, you play for nothing. And so love comes to mean nothing, in the end.’
She put one hand on my shoulder.
‘This will all be all right. You’ll see. Carlo. Come to bed. We should celebrate this.’
I left her then.
I turned and walked out of her apartments, the outer rooms already filHng with petitioners eager to get the best position at her ruelk. I walked out of that decrepit, sprawling palace, past rakes still drunk from the night before and grand ladies hurrying home in their ballgowns. I passed courtesans tiptoeing from ministers’ apartments, and yawning footmen removing the burnt-out stubs from silver candlesticks. As that great hive of cynicism and debauchery came to life for another day, I left it without a backward glance.
I walked through St James’s Park. One of the deer lifted his head to watch me: a single stag, his head crowned with antlers, guarding his does.
The kitchens at the Red Lion were quiet, now that Hannah had gone. There was no smell of baking pies wafting through the dining room, no aroma of fresh herbs steeping on the stove.
She had left the alcove where she worked very tidy. Her per
«
ishables had been given away to neighbours or friends, the saucepans and tools sold in the market for ready cash.
On the table was a book. I picked it up, wondering why she had left this particular volume behind.
Culpeper. The Compleat Herbal. I opened the cover. On the flyleaf she had written.
Signor,
This book is freely available where I am going. So you had
better have this one, and I will buy another. But please keep it
safe, and do not let them burn it.
Tour friend, Hannah Crowe
I turned the pages.
Musk melons . . . Cucumbers . . . Burdock . . .
Hetties are so well known that they need no description^ they may be found, by feeling, in the darkest night.
Chamomile . . . Penny-mint. . . Cress ...
Did a book of herbs really deserve to be burned.^
Was Charles right, when he talked to me about the prism? Is it really knowledge that is dangerous, or secrecy? t
I took my cart and drove down to Barn Elms. Builders wearing gloves against the cold were hard at work, hoisting into place the great blocks of carved and moulded ice that would make up the facade of the pavilion. Next to it, the skating pond was already complete, covered with straw to keep it fresh.
I walked round, inspecting their handiwork. Even now, the sun’s rays were making the surface of the blocks damp. When it was finished the ice palace would last a few days, a fortnight at the most.
It would be a triumph - of course it would: everything she did was a triumph. People would talk about this extravagance for years. As for the tastes of my ice creams, what would be said about them? Nothing - for how could anyone talk about something so few had experienced and none could imagine?
They woulcT disappear, like snowflakes in summer. Like Michelangelo’s snowman, washed away by the rain.
Two apprentices were playing amongst a pile of discarded chippings. As they hurled flstfuls of ice at each other the chips scattered and caught the sun above their heads, a flashing, glittering rainbow of colours. The children shrieked and whooped, before the foreman stopped them with a growl.
I loaded up my cart with ice and tools. To the east lay the road back to London - the new King’s Road, still unfinished, but sure to be a recipient of some of those French livres soon. To the west lay the great road that led to the far coast of England: the ports of Plymouth, Bristol and Torquay.
I went west, towards the setting sun.
t
Carlo
Few pleasures, indeed, can be made so cheaply as an ice.
The Book of Ices
Beyond Slough I came across a small country horse-fair. It was nothing special, but it was all the more special for that: children on ponies were showing off their prowess over tiny jumps; there were jugglers and lace-sellers, a competition for the biggest marrow, and another for the cow with the fastest milk. At the market stalls they were selUng gooseberries, blackcurrants, apricots and nuts.
I made a blackcurrant ice cream, and served it with the sweet, rich cream from the milk.
At Maidenhead I made an ice of lemon-cream and penny-mint, and sold it on market day for a ha’penny a glass.
At Newbury I bought gooseberries, and made an ice-cream fool.
At Hungerford I almost caused a riot with an. ice cream of Barcelona nuts. I had prepared two gallons, but such was the demand that many had to share. I saw country lasses and country boys licking spoons together, and by the time I left that place there was dancing around the maypoles.
At Castle Combe I spent the evenings writing down my recipes, and how to make ice colder with salt.
At Marlborough Fair I gave a demonstration - they thought it was a trick, and kept asking each other how I was fooling them. I had to give away the ice cream for nothing before they would beheve me.
At Bath I parked my cart outside the Assembly Rooms. I made
an ice of nectarines, and another of pistachios, and watched the fashionable lords and ladies skip like country folk for joy.
By the time I reached Bristol I had used up all my ice, except for a final pint or so. I put it in my rooms, and as I wrote my book of ices I watched it turn to water - clear and cool and pure.
I drank it wi^ a few drops of lemon-pulp, and a sprig of sweet cicely.
Bristol is a big town - the biggest in England, after London. It is said good ice can be got here, for use by the gentry. But I have had enough of making ices for now.