The young man refused and began hauling at Harry’s sleeve, trying to reason with him. “Don’t be a fool, Harry! His Grace has been troubling no one! You’re drunk—come on, let’s leave.”
“Pox on you, then!” declared Killigrew. “If you’re an arrant coward, I’m not!”
With that he unbuckled his sword, lifted it high and brought it smashing down, case and all, upon the Duke’s head. He turned instantly and began to run as Buckingham sprang to his feet in white-faced fury and started after him. The two men scrambled along, climbing over seats, hitting off hats, stepping on feet. Women began to scream; the actors on the stage were shouting; and above in the balconies ’prentices and bullies and harlots crowded to the railing, stamping and beating their cudgels.
“Kill ’im, your Grace!”
“Whip ’im through the lungs!”
“Slit the bastard’s nose!”
Someone threw an orange and it smacked Killigrew square in the face. An excited woman grabbed at Buckingham’s wig and pulled it off. Killigrew was heading at furious speed for an exit, looking back with a horrified face to see the Duke gaining on him. Now Buckingham pulled out his naked sword, bellowing, “Stop, you coward!”
Killigrew sent men and women sprawling to the floor in his headlong flight and the Duke, following after, tramped across them. He might have escaped but someone stuck out an ankle to trip him. The next moment Buckingham was upon him and gave him a hearty kick in the ribs with his square-toed shoe.
“Get on your feet and fight, you poltroon!” roared the Duke.
“Please, your Grace! It was all in jest!”
Killigrew writhed about, trying to escape the Duke’s feet, which kicked viciously at him again and again, striking him in the stomach and the chest and about the shins. The theatre roared with excitement, urging him to trample out his guts, to slice his throat. Now Buckingham leaned over, wrenched Harry’s sword away and spat into his face.
“Bah! You snivelling coward, you don’t deserve to wear a sword!” He kicked him again and Killigrew coughed, doubling over. “Get on your knees and ask me for your life—or by God I’ll kill you like the yellow dog you are!”
Harry crawled to his knees. “Good your Grace,” he whined obediently, “spare my life.”
“Keep it then,” muttered Buckingham contemptuously. “If you think it’s any use to you!” and he kicked him again for good measure.
Harry got painfully to his feet and started out, limping, one hand pressed against his aching ribs. He was followed by derisive hoots and jeers as the scornful crowd hurled oranges and wooden cudgels, shoes and apple-cores after him. Harry Killigrew was the most disgraced man of the year.
Buckingham watched him go. Then someone handed him his wig and he took it, slapped the dust out and set it back on his head again. With Harry gone their cries of abuse changed to cheers for his Grace, and Buckingham, smiling and bowing politely, made his way back to his seat. He sat down between Rochester and Etherege, sweating and hot, but pleased in his triumph.
“By God, that’s a piece of business I’ve been intending to do for a long while!”
Rochester gave him an affectionate slap on the back. “His Majesty should be grateful enough to forgive you anything. There’s no man who wears a head needed a public beating so bad as Harry.”
LORD CARLTON HAD not been gone a month when Amber was appointed a Lady of the Bedchamber and moved into apartments at Whitehall. The suite consisted of twelve rooms, six on a floor, strung out straight along the river front and adjoining the King’s apartments, to which it had access by means of a narrow passage and staircase opening from an alcove in the drawing-room. Many such trap-stairs and passageways had been constructed during Mrs. Cromwell’s stay there, for her ease in spying upon her servants—the King often found them useful too.
And will you look at me now! thought Amber, as she surveyed her new surroundings. What a long way I’ve come!
Sometimes she wondered in idle amusement what Aunt Sarah and Uncle Matt and all her seven cousins would think if they could see her—titled, rich, with a coach-and-eight, satin and velvet gowns by the score, a collection of emeralds to rival Castlemaine’s pearls, bowed to by lords and earls as she passed along the Palace corridors. This, she knew, was to be truly great. But she thought she knew also what Uncle Matt, at least, would think about it. He would say that she was a harlot and a disgrace to the family. But then, Uncle Matt always had been an old dunderhead.
