Gillian Bagwell - The Darling Strumpet

Nell was not sure why Charles had asked her to accompany him on a visit to the royal dockyards at Deptford and Woolwich this afternoon, but she had readily agreed. He loved the sea, ships, and seamen, and was happy stumping around the muddy dockyards examining spars and rope and masts and inspecting the progress on the newest ships for his navy. And he always enjoyed the company of Sam Pepys, as she did, and Pepys would be their guide today.

The face of the river was dotted with traffic-wherries and other small boats carrying passengers across the river or up- or downstream, the sunburned faces of the watermen shining with sweat as they pulled; fishing boats bobbing placidly in the afternoon sun; and the long length of the Pool of London choked with innumerable ships anchored and waiting to be unloaded, their vast bulks towering impossibly over the water and the myriad smaller craft.

On the quays hundreds of men were hard at the work that never ceased-heavy loads were lowered on rope whips or trundled down rattling gangplanks to the docks, and the army of dockies, customs officials, naval officers, sailors, merchants, and investors swirled and eddied around huge piles of bales, barrels, bags, and bundles of all kinds. In that small area was everything that came into England from the rest of the world-food, silk, spices, gold-and even timber, coal, and wool from other parts of the realm.

Nell looked over at Charles, who was watching with lazy interest a dispute on the near bank between a waterman and his fare. The dark curls of his wig fluttered gently in the summer breeze, and he absently took off his hat and fanned his face against the muggy heat. Nell smiled, overwhelmed with a wave of fondness for him, enjoying seeing him at his ease and for the moment untroubled by worry. He turned his head, caught her glance, and smiled back, then tilted his head back and closed his eyes, letting the dappled sun and shadow provided by the canopy overhead play over his face. A trickle of sweat ran down his right temple and lost itself in the faint stubble of beard on his jaw.

Nell tugged at the front of her bodice in a vain effort to let some air between the prison of her stays and her damp body, then waved her fan in front of her, the blue ostrich feathers wafting some of the river’s damp breath onto her face.

Above, a heavy cover of cloud suddenly obscured the sun, and the sky stood in a billowing gray arc. The great panorama of London lay to their left and behind them, the spires of Wren’s new churches standing proud, the clean bright gray of their stones standing out against the darker hues of the City. Nell noticed with wonder the variety of sounds that reached across the water-hawkers’ cries, the high-pitched shouts of boys, the low rumble of heavy cart wheels over cobbled streets, the sudden bark of a dog, the almost inaudible keen of a bagpipe’s drone carried momentarily on the wind to her ears and then lost again in the gentle slapping of the water against the boat’s sides and the splash of the oars’ entry into the deep green water.

The barge was abreast of Greenwich now. The old palace, where King Henry VIII and his daughter Queen Elizabeth had been born and where Henry had signed the death warrant for Anne Boleyn, had fallen into disrepair during the war, and the first building of Charles’s new palace had risen among its ruins on the waterfront.

“We’ll stop here first, I think,” Charles said. “I want to make a visit to the observatory. You don’t mind, do you, Nell?”

“No, of course not, my love,” she said. “Where you lead, I will follow.”

The barge was already making for the wharf below the palace, and Nell was surprised to see Sam Pepys waiting there, resplendent in a new-looking suit and wig, his almost-perpetual smile beaming his welcome. He stepped forward as the boat came alongside the stairs and took Nell’s hand as she alit, lifting her skirts so that they would not drag on the slippery green of the seaweed-covered stone steps.

“Your Majesty,” he bowed. “And Nelly, how happy it makes me to see you looking so well.”

A carriage took them up through the royal park to the top of the hill, where the new red brick observatory sat, but to Nell’s surprise, Charles did not make his way indoors, but instead led her to the terrace.

Nell had always loved the sweeping view from the top of the hill, the park rolling down to the Queen’s House, that dollhouse abode that had been built for Charles’s mother, and on to the riverbank and the meadows of the Isle of Dogs beyond. From this height she could see the busy dockyards, the ships in the Pool, the Tower, and the City, laid out far below like a child’s toys.

“I do love Greenwich,” she mused, taking Charles’s arm.

“I know you do,” he said, smiling down at her. “That’s why I thought that you might perchance like it if you were to become Countess of Greenwich.”

Nell stared at him speechless. Was he in jest?

He shook his head, as if reading her mind. “No, I am in earnest. We’ll wait a bit yet, but we will do it, and if the world doesn’t like it, why, they may go to the devil.”

“Oh, Charles.” Nell couldn’t think of anything to say that could express the depth of her surprise and gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you, my love, thank you.”

NELL’S HAPPINESS AT THE TITLE SHE WOULD RECEIVE WAS DIMMED a few days later with the news of Michael Mohun’s death. Looking around the mourners at the funeral, she thought back to the night at Madam Ross’s so long ago when she had met the actors of the King’s Company on the night of their return to the stage. Charles Hart, John Lacy, Walter Clun, Michael Mohun, Richard Baxter, old Theo Bird, and the rest. Of the older men, only old Will Cartwright was yet alive. The thought felt like another nail in her own coffin, and with a sick lurch to her stomach, she knew that another headache was coming on.

By the time the service was over and she was in her coach, the pain was blinding. She could not wait to get home and lie down, and was dismayed when the coach clattered to a stop too soon to have reached her house. Agitated voices rang out, and angry shouts. She rolled up the gilded leather flap covering the window next to her. A black-coated parson, looking as though the hounds of hell were after him, faced three burly bailiffs, and a small crowd had gathered to hear the confrontation.

“What is it, John?” Nell called up to her coachman.

“Don’t know, madam. I’ll find out.” He jumped down from the box and strode to the fringes of the crowd. Fingers pointed at the clergyman and the bailiffs, and voices rose in indignant pitch as bystanders explained. John scratched his head and returned to the coach.

“The bandogs are trying to arrest the clergyman for debt, madam. He’s fallen on hard times, tells them that if they take him in he’ll have no way of paying the debts, but they’re having none of it. Shall I clear out the lot of them so we can pass?” He hefted his whip in his hand.

“No,” said Nell. “Help me out. Let me have a word.”

John lowered the step of the coach and handed her out, and she gathered her shawl around her and made her way to the growing crowd. At the sight of the well-dressed lady, the onlookers fell back to let her through.

“But I tell you, I haven’t got it!” The clergyman’s eyes were wild, like an animal hunted into a corner.

“What is the sum that is owed?”

The bailiffs swung to face Nell.

“And what business is it of yours?” one of them demanded. “Madam,” he added, at a nudge from one of his fellows. At the sound of his voice, Nell nearly fell backward with shock, for it was the guard who had flung her to the cobblestones at Newgate so many years before. A world away, an eon away. He had so terrified her then, but now she looked full upon the man and stepped close to him. She looked into his eyes, the top of her head barely reaching his barrel chest.