Gillian Bagwell - The Darling Strumpet

THAT NIGHT NELL TOSSED IN HER BED. THIS WAS SO LIKE THAT OTHER time, she thought. When had it been? Oh, yes, when Jemmy had died, when the sun had been blotted out, when her world had come to a shuddering stop. And now it was happening again. Charles was dying. All of England knew it now, and held its breath, praying for a miracle, or failing that, that he should go quickly and without pain. The doctors were doing all they knew how, with purges and bleeding and plasters and mixtures that made up for their lack of effect by their noxiousness. The queen had sat by his bed without sleep, distraught and unwilling to leave his side until she had been removed almost by force so that she should get some rest. The Duke of York paced and hovered, the kingship that had loomed on the horizon for so long now almost come upon him. Charlie and Charles’s other sons had been called to their father’s bedside. And Nell curled alone in her bed, paralyzed by fear and grief. She wanted only to cease to feel and drained off the tincture that Dr. Lower had prepared for her, hoping for release into oblivion.

NELL POUNDED ON THE DOOR, GRAPPLED FOR SOME HOLD ON ITS smooth surface, but it would not yield. She cried out, and woke herself with the crying. This time she knew the nightmare had been only that, but it was worse, having lived its embodiment earlier in the day. Had all the times the dream had reoccurred since her childhood been leading to this night, when the door would be shut in her face with such finality?

Charles. She knew he would want to see her. And she must see him, must tell him once more she loved him, all that he meant to her.

THE STREETS WERE BLACK IN THE WINTER DARKNESS, BUT LIGHT shone from many windows in the palace. A sharp and bitter wind came off the river, and Nell’s teeth chattered with fear and cold. The way through the warren of gardens and passages at the palace seemed endless.

At last she reached the outer rooms of the king’s chambers. By a miracle no crowd was gathered there. Only Will Chiffinch, the keeper of the king’s privy closet, stood outside with the guards, and just as she arrived, the door to Charles’s bedchamber opened, and the Duke of York came out with the earls of Bath and Feversham and a Papist priest who she recognized as Father John Huddleston, who had helped Charles during his escape after the Battle of Worcester.

Nell knew that she must look wild and frantic, and that word of her earlier appearance had surely spread. With an effort she slowed her footsteps and restrained herself from crying out as she approached the Duke of York.

“Your Grace,” she began, but her voice caught in her throat and she stopped, desperate to suppress the sobs that filled her chest. “Your Grace-” But again she could get no further. She bowed her head helplessly to hide her loss of control, then sank to her knees.

“I beg of you. Do but let me see him for a few minutes. I cannot lose him.” She grasped his hand and clung to him. She knew even as she cried that she might be hurting her case, that the last thing he and the doctors wanted was hysteria in Charles’s presence. And yet she could not stop. The pain of the impending loss was too great.

She raised her streaming eyes to the duke and saw that there were tears in his gray eyes. The pain and sympathy she saw in his face gave her encouragement and allowed her to speak more calmly.

“I will not distress him, I give you my word. I would not for the world cause him any pain. I love him. More than-more than…”

The duke nodded, and stooped to her.

“I know you do. As do I. You may see him. But not for long. Hush your crying now.” He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and blotted her tears away, then helped her to her feet. At a gesture from him, the guards opened the door into the king’s bedchamber.

The fire roared high in the fireplace and the heat in the room was stifling. Only a few candles burned and the bed stood in deep shadows, dimly lit by the orange flickering of the candle flames and the hearth.

Nell approached the bed. Charles’s eyes were closed, and his breathing was shallow and ragged. She could see the irregular pulse beat in the vein at the side of his neck. To see the familiar face once more, each detail of which she had looked at she did not know how many times, was both everything she had longed for and more than she could bear.

“Charles.” She spoke his name softly, and touched the hand that lay limply on the bed coverings. He exhaled slightly, and his eyes flickered open. Nell clasped his hand to her mouth and kissed it.

“Nell.” His voice rasped weakly, but there was a faint smile on his ravaged face.

“I’ll be outside,” the Duke of York said, and she heard the door close quietly behind him. She sank into the chair beside the bed and gazed at Charles, taking in every precious detail of the well-loved face.

“Oh, Charles,” Nell said, and stroked his cheek.

“I’m afeard I will die owing you a birthday present,” Charles said, squeezing her hand in his. “Can you forgive me?”

“I would forgive you anything, had you ever done anything to wrong me,” Nell said. “But you have not.”

Charles’s mouth twitched in a wry smile, his eyes closed again.

“Then you are surely the only person in the wide world who bears me no grudge.”

“Oh, no,” Nell breathed. “Do you not know how well you are loved?”

“Am I?” Charles asked, and was seized by a fit of coughing that shook his body. Nell watched in alarm.

“Shall I call the doctor?”

“For the love of God, no,” Charles grimaced. “They have done all they can to help me on my way. I would rather die now with none but you here than let that pack of ravens try more of their futile tortures.”

“Can you not live?” Nell pleaded, holding his hand to her cheek.

Eyes still closed, Charles shook his head. “No, sweetheart. I hear the beating of the wings of the angel of death, and I am aweary of the fight.”

Nell wept softly, and Charles turned his head on the pillow to look at her.

“I would I could go with you,” she cried. “What shall I do without you?”

“All will be well, my love,” Charles said, reaching to stroke her cheek. “Never fear. All is as it is meant to be, and all will be well.”

They sat in silence for some moments, the crackling of the fire and Nell’s sniffling the only sounds.

“What is the hour?” Charles asked.

Nell peered at one of the many clocks in the room. “Just gone seven,” she said.

“The sun will be up soon,” Charles said. “I would like to see it one more time. Help me, Nell. Take me to the window.”

Nell pulled the covers from Charles and helped him to sit. He rested for a moment, then, struggling, swung his feet to the side of the bed. Nell leaned down so that she could get a shoulder under his arm and, using her other arm to steady him, helped him to his feet. He panted with the effort, and swayed, but took a step toward the eastward-facing window, and Nell guided him to it.

The starry sky rose black and endless above them. But straight ahead, there was an almost imperceptible lightening. It grew, moment by moment, so that soon there was a glimmer of pale light in the east, and the dark and undulating river shone silver before them.

After but a few minutes more, a sudden sharp sliver of gold appeared on the horizon, growing steadily. Now pink rays emanated from the glowing ball, coloring the slate of the clouds to flaming glory.

“A miracle,” said Charles softly into Nell’s ear. “A new day upon the earth. But I will not see its close.”

“You will!” Nell cried. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face against his chest, as if holding onto him would keep him from going.