Paula Marshall - The Astrologer's Daughter

Kit was thinking on this as he walked back to his lodgings to change to play tennis, and to rest a little. He met Buckingham coming from his quarters which faced the Privy Garden; Kit’s were not far from the tennis court.

‘Well met, Kit. Hath Old Rowley done with thee?’ Old Rowley was the King’s nickname after a notorious goat, given because of Charles’s many loves. Charles knew of it and, in his sardonic way, was amused by it.

‘Not yet. I am to play tennis with him later.’

‘Sooner thou than I.’ Buckingham became confidential, put his arm through Kit’s. ‘I had news today which should give us all pause. They say that the plague is far worse than the Bills of Mortality suggest. That it grows apace and leaves the warrens of St Giles and Alsatia behind and advances towards the City. I should have had old Antiquis perform an election on it.’

‘His daughter said that they forecast that the plague would come this year, and that it would be a great one…’

‘So, that was the burden of the talk. Small wonder that you progressed no further with her than you did if that was all you could think to speak of!’

Kit shrugged. ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘that I may have progressed further than I thought. I am not sure, George, how far I wish to pursue this bet, even though by winning I might gain Latter.’

Buckingham laughed maliciously. ‘Too late, man, too late. The die is cast. The bet is made that you will make the fair Celia no longer a maid.’

Once, Kit would have continued to play further with words, but not today. ‘Did Antiquis say how much time might pass before he brought your answers to Whitehall?’

‘Oho!’ Buckingham laughed again. ‘So hot to see her, Kit, that you cannot wait? He said it might be a week, but should you wish to see her sooner, why, you know the way to the Strand. Her father would welcome thee, so pleased was he that the Court now patronises him. Would his pleasure agree to the surrender of his daughter’s virginity, think you?’

Commonly Kit might have continued jousting with him after this fashion, but today he was uneasy, sick at heart, and did not know why.

‘Oh, I can wait,’ he answered. ‘What was it that the old Roman, Fabius by name, said? That the best generalship draws the enemy on by slow degrees to destroy him utterly.’

‘A soldier’s answer,’ responded Buckingham gaily. ‘Well, I live to see that day, Kit, when she comes and you retreat and retreat so that alone, in enemy country, there is no retreat for her, but only surrender. I do not wish thee well, mind, for I covet thy ring.’

He was gone. Quicksilver in mind and body, a man whom few would trust, but old hardships shared bound him and Kit together. Had he told his friend the truth it would have been that he wished to see her again and soon, if only to find that his memory of her was false—that she was but another woman, after all.

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