Kathleen Winsor - Forever Amber

Behind her, Bruce took Almsbury’s handkerchief and wiped the blood from his sword, jammed it back into its case and buckled the belt around his hips once more. By tradition the sword of the defeated man was forfeit, but he made no move to take it and Rex’s fingers were still loosely clasped on the hilt. Bruce’s surgeon was tearing open his shirt and binding the wound with a strip of white cloth while Bruce stood, hands on his hips and feet spread, looking down at Rex. His face was dark and grim, bitter but not triumphant.

Rex was moving restlessly, as if to escape the pain, and though he coughed and turned his head to spit out blood there was very little blood coming from the wound in his chest. Amber was sobbing hysterically, covering his face with kisses and stroking his head with her hands.

“Rex, darling! Look at me! Speak to me!”

He opened his eyes at last, very slowly, and as he saw her he tried to smile. “I’m ashamed, Amber,” he said softly, “that you saw me—beaten.”

“Oh, Rex! I don’t care about that! You know I don’t! All I care about is you—Are you in pain? Does it hurt you?”

A quick spasm crossed his face and the sweat started suddenly, but his features relaxed again as he looked up at her. “No—Amber. It doesn’t hurt. I’ll be—” But at that moment he coughed again and turned his head to spit out a great glob of clotted blood. His mouth was splattered with it; his eyes shut and one hand pressed hard against his chest in an effort to stop the gurgling cough.

Bruce slid his arms into the doublet Almsbury held for him, gave Rex a last look and then tossing his cloak over his arm started off, with the Earl and his surgeon, toward where a young page held their horses.

Amber looked around suddenly and saw him walking away. She glanced swiftly at Rex. He lay now quiet and with his eyes closed; she hesitated only an instant and then, very gently, she laid his head onto the grass. Hurriedly she got to her feet and ran after Bruce, calling his name in a soft voice so that Rex would not hear.

“Bruce!”

He swung around and looked at her, incredulity on his face and violent anger. When he spoke his teeth were clenched and the muscles at one side of his mouth twitched with nervous rage. “There’s a man dying over there—Go back to him!”

Amber stared at him for a moment in stunned helplessness, unable to believe the contempt and loathing she saw on his face. As though from a distance she heard Rex’s voice, calling her name. Blind fury raged in her and before she knew what she was doing she had drawn back her hand and slapped him squarely across the mouth with all the force in her body. She saw his eyes glitter as the blow struck but at the same moment she whirled, picking up her skirts, and was running back to kneel beside Rex. His eyes were opened now but as she bent over him she saw that they stared without seeing, his face was expressionless—he was dead. And in his hand, held closely as though he had been trying to lift it high enough to see, was the miniature of herself which she had given him the year before.

GROPING LANE WAS a narrow dirty disreputable little alley on Tower Hill. The houses were crazily built and old, and the overhanging stories leaned across the street, almost touching at the top and shutting light and air from the festering piles of refuse that lay against each wall. The great gilded coach tried to turn into the lane but, finding it too narrow, was forced to stop at the entrance. A woman, completely covered by a black hooded cloak and with a vizard over her face, got out and with two footmen on either side of her hurried several yards farther up the alley and disappeared into one of the houses. The footmen remained below, waiting.

Running swiftly up two flights of stairs she paused and knocked on the door just at the top. For a moment there was no reply and she knocked again, hammering impatiently, glancing around as though some unseen pair of eyes might be watching her there in the pitch-dark stairwell. Still the door did not open, but a man’s voice spoke from behind it, softly:

“Who is it?”

“Let me in! It’s Lady Castlemaine, you logger-head!”

As though she had given the magic formula the door swung wide and he bowed from the waist, sweeping out one hand with a gesture of flourishing hospitality as Barbara sailed in.

The room was small and bare and dark, furnished with nothing but some worn, cane-bottomed stools and chairs and a large table littered with papers and piled with books; more books and a globe of the world stood beside it on the floor. Outside the night was frosty, and the meagre sea-coal fire which burnt in the fireplace warmed only a small area around it. An ugly mongrel dog came to reassure himself by a curious sniff at Barbara’s velvet-booted feet, and then returned to gnaw at a bone.

The man who admitted her looked little better than his dog. He was so thin that his chamois breeches and soiled shirt hung upon him as though on a rack. But his pale blue eyes were quick and shrewd and his face for all its gauntness had a look of enthusiasm and intelligence, combined with a certain slyness that was revealed in the shifting of his eyes and the unctuous quality of his smile.

He was Dr. Heydon—the degree he had bestowed upon himself—astrologer and general quack, and Barbara had been there once before to find out whom the King would marry.

“I apologize, your Ladyship,” said Heydon now, “for not opening the door immediately. But to be honest with you I am so hounded by my creditors that I dare not open to anyone unless I first make certain of his identity. The truth of it is, your Ladyship,” he added, heaving a sigh and flinging out his arms in a gesture of despair, “I scarcely dare leave my lodgings these days for fear I shall be seized upon by a bailiff and carried off to Newgate! Which God forbid!”

But if he hoped to interest Barbara in his problems he was very much mistaken. In the first place she knew well enough that there was no ribbon-seller or perfumer or dressmaker in London with a trade at Court who did not hope to enrich himself at the expense of the nobility. And in the second she had come there to tell him her troubles, not to listen to his.

“I want you to help me, Dr. Heydon. There’s something I must know. It means everything to me!”

Heydon rubbed his dry hands together and picked up a pair of thick-lensed spectacles which he perched midway down his nose. “Of course, my lady! Pray be seated.” He held a chair for her and then took one himself just across the table, picking up a pen made of a long goose quill and beginning to caress his chin with the tip of it. “Now, madame, what is it that troubles you?” His tone was sympathetic, inviting confidence, implying a willingness and ability to solve any problem.

Barbara had removed her mask and now she tossed back the hood and dropped the cloak down from her shoulders. As she did so the diamonds at her throat and in her ears and hair caught the light and struck off brilliant sparks; Dr. Heydon’s eyes widened and began to glow, focusing upon them.

But Barbara did not notice. She frowned, stripping off her gloves, and for several moments she remained silent and thoughtful. If only there was some way she could get his advice without telling him! She felt like a young bride going to consult a physician, except that her scruples were those not of modesty but of angry and humiliated pride.

How can I tell him that the King’s grown tired of me! she thought. Besides, it’s not true! I know it isn’t! No matter what anyone says! It’s just that he’s so pleased at the prospect of having a legitimate child—for once! I know he still loves me. He must! He’s just as cold to Frances Stewart as he is to me—! Oh, it’s all because of that damned woman—that damned Portuguese!

She raised her eyes and looked at him. “You’ve heard, perhaps,” she said at last, “that her Majesty finally proves with child?” She accentuated the word “finally,” giving it an inflection which suggested that the delay was due to Catherine’s own malicious procrastination.

“Ah, madame! Of course! Haven’t we all heard the happy news by now? And high time it is—but then, better late than never, as they say. Eh, your Ladyship?” But at Barbara’s quick disapproving scowl he sobered, cleared his throat, and bent over his papers. “Now, what were you saying, your Ladyship?”

“That her Majesty proves with child!” snapped Barbara. “Now, it seems that since it was learned the Queen is pregnant, his Majesty has fallen in love with her. That must be the reason, since no one noticed that he paid her any undue attention before. He neglects his old friends and scarcely goes near some of them. I want you to tell me”—suddenly she Leaned forward, staring at him intently—“what will happen once the child is born. Will he go back to his old habits then? Or what?”

Heydon nodded his head and bent to his work. For some time he was silent, poring over an extremely complicated map of the heavens which was spread before him, pursing his lips and frowning studiously. From time to time he sucked air through a space between his two front teeth and drummed his fingers on the table. Barbara sat and watched him, her excitement mounting and her hopes, as well, for she could not believe that he would give her any really bad news. Somehow, this would all work out to her satisfaction—as everything had always done.

“Faith, madame,” he said at last, “you ask me a very difficult question.”

“Why? Can’t you see into the future? I thought that was your business!” She spoke to him as though he were a glove-maker who had just told her that he would be unable to get the kind of leather she wanted.