The Loving Cup

by Paul Doherty

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

An impossible love. A grisly murder. A hunt for justice. Paul Doherty's novel The Loving Cup, brings Restoration London to raucous life amid a compelling love story and murder mystery. Perfect for fans of Philippa Gregory and Jean Plaidy. Samuel Atkins is deeply in love with Maria Eleanora, a beautiful young woman from the court of Queen Catherine. But Atkins is a poor clerk, and Maria Eleanora a foreigner, so their love must remain a secret. When an important judge is found murdered, Samuel Pepys' followers are suspected, and Atkins is arrested. Suddenly, Maria Eleanora realises that to save her lover and discover the hideous truth behind the crime, she must thread her way through both the treacherous alleys of London and the murky and murderous politics of those seeking to destroy the king. Based on historical events, The Loving Cup not only probes one of the great murder mysteries of English history but also recounts a love story as passionate as it is secretive. What readers are saying about Paul Doherty: 'Paul Doherty is a synonym for quality and entertainment ' 'A compelling tale of historical fiction that exudes accuracy and detail ' ' The sounds and smells of the period seem to waft from the pages of [Paul Doherty's] books'

Release date: July 11, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

Catgut Alley, Farringdon Ward

October 1678

I passed you the loving cup,

I filled it to the brim.

My life, my soul, my desires, my heart!

My dear Samuel, all my days are thinking of you!

Without your love, there is no life!

Your very breath, your very being

Replaces the heart which used to pound within me.

I cannot live without you. I cannot love without you.

You are my dawn and my morning,

My noon, my dusk, my evening.

I am yours.

We meet in the dark and the dark becomes sun.

The sun becomes dark without you.

Your smile is the light of my life.

Your words the life of my soul.

Our love is hidden yet like the seed in winter,

In earth’s warm, dark womb, it gathers strength.

I wait for the day it breaks the hardened, frost-trapped ground.

I cannot live without your presence.

I cannot love without your presence.

I can only live, by the beat of your heart,

The new life you have given me.

We play our parts, like actors on the stage.

We must take care that care itself does not spoil our love.

Clumsy words but, in the passion of the night or the

Cold of dawn, my love still runs true.

Josiah-Praise-the-Lord Stanker read these lines, chapped lips moving slowly, in the light of a lantern horn slung on the dirty post of the Cuckold’s Apron inn in Catgut Alley. Josiah had seen better days. He had lost his wig and, some said, his wits with it. In these dark days, Josiah was a professional beggar, sneak-thief, the occasional dabbler in pamphlets and broadsides. Indeed, a veritable Autolycus, a snapper-up of mere trifles. Josiah-Praise-the-Lord Stanker had once been a preacher, a soldier in Cromwell’s new Model Army. He had worn the quilted jerkin, the breastplate of the Lord Protector. Steel helmet on his head and the sword of righteousness in his hand, Josiah had slaughtered the enemies of the Lord, the Amalekites and the priests of Baal. Now, the Lord had withdrawn His hand, for Charles Stuart had come home. ‘The Tall, Dark Boy’ with his thick, black wig, Moorish face and those devilish loving lips which seemed to be pressed more often against a whore’s tits than mouthing the words of Holy Writ.

Josiah had truly fallen low in the world. He had just eaten a dish of eels and downed a blackjack of ale and come out to relieve himself by the alley wall, when he heard the quick clip-clop of boots, echoing loud across the wailing of cats and the raucous bawling of a doxy further down. Slinking into the shadows, he had drawn his wicked little dagger. The figure passed, and for the briefest moment, Josiah had glimpsed the soft, broad-brimmed hat with its scarlet plume, the black vizard over the eyes, muffler drawn up, the heavy cloak, the riding boots and, above all, the embroidered sword’s scabbard slapping against velvet-clad legs. Josiah had swiftly slipped the dagger away. For all he knew, this could be a roaring boy, a fighting man; certainly not some pullet ready to be plucked, or a drunken merchant with his fat paunch bubbly with ale and his purse full of coins.

‘A penny, sir,’ Josiah whined, creeping out of the shadows, calloused hand extended, shuffling his feet to emphasise his limp.

Scarlet Plume had whirled round, hand going to the hilt of his sword. Josiah was aware of bright eyes gleaming behind the mask, the soft, delicate skin of the lower face. The gloved fingers were long; the way they beat a small tattoo on the hilt of the sword meant Scarlet Plume was well used to the sudden draw, the poised stance, the savage thrust and parry of the professional swordsman.

‘I didn’t mean to a-fear you, sir.’ Josiah stepped forward. ‘But I am starving, belly clenched to my backbone it is. Fought for the King I did, at Marston Moor, God bless him!’

Stanker noticed how Scarlet Plume’s eyes were no longer fierce, lips parted in a smile. He quietly praised his own sagacity. This fellow was a Cavalier, a courtier, Frenchified and dandified.

‘God bless His Majesty!’ Josiah added.

‘Aye, sir.’ The voice was soft, low. ‘And God bless our Queen.’

Stanker caught the foreign accent, just the roll of the ‘r’, a slight lilt. Spanish?

‘And God bless the true religion,’ Josiah offered, then bit his lip. Had he gone too far? The hands moved. Suddenly a coin flipped in the air.

‘And God bless you too, Josiah-Praise-the-Lord Stanker!’

The former preacher caught the coin and stood, mouth gaping, as Scarlet Plume strode off up the alleyway. How did the fellow know him? And then Josiah had seen it, lying on the ground, a small scroll of parchment. He’d plucked this up and taken it over to the lantern light to peruse.

When he had finished reading, Josiah slid down the wall, the parchment clasped tightly in his hand next to the coin. He felt both cold and old. How long since he had felt a woman’s arms around him? A sweet voice murmuring endearments in his ear? What had he known but the anger of God and the lack of love amongst his fellows? Josiah’s mind went back down the memory of the years, lighted with what? The glow of campfires? The weak flames of tallow candles in a thousand tavern rooms or the raging fires as houses and cities burnt amidst the screams and wretched cries of women and children? No more the glories of Marston Moor, the thundering cavalry charge, the clear certainty that God’s will was manifest. Oliver Cromwell, the Lord Protector, was twenty years in his grave, or had been, until Charles Stuart had dug him up, hung Cromwell’s corpse from the Common Gallows and spiked his head over Westminster Hall. Josiah had gone down to see it and stared up in absolute horror. Despite the ravages of the grave, and the washing given to the severed head in brine and cumin by the executioner, Stanker had been able to make out the features of a man he had once regarded as ‘the Lord’s Anointed’.

Stanker closed his eyes and wept. He wished he had gone after Scarlet Plume and handed back this love poem. Asked him about the love of his life, asked him how a man could make any woman such a passionate object of longing and desire. Then Stanker’s head came up.

‘But that’s wrong!’ he whispered. ‘By the Lord, that’s wrong!’

Scrambling to his feet, he went back to the lantern; his dirty fingers unrolled the parchment, eyes hungrily searching the words.

‘Where is it now? What was it?’ he mumbled.

Ah, there, he had found it. The poem was to someone called Samuel. But that was ridiculous! Scarlet Plume was a man! Was the well-dressed stranger one of those bum boys, then? A sodomite?

‘Ah, what is the world coming to?’ Stanker mumbled through rotting teeth.

A vague suspicion occurred. Surely Scarlet Plume was a man? And yet . . . He remembered the long fingers, the melodious voice, those eyes, the beautiful skin round the mouth and chin, lips full and red. Was it a man – or a pretty boy? Or even some young woman disguised as a man? Stanker could well believe it. The recent fashions, the flared petticoat-breeches, the ribbons and the wigs were all worn by the Cavaliers – men pretending to be women. Had the opposite now happened, women pretending to be men? Josiah rolled the parchment up. He was glad he had met Scarlet Plume. This poem could go in his moth-eaten wallet. He glanced at the coin in his palm and gasped in astonishment. He had expected a penny but it was a silver coin. Josiah looked up at the narrow strip of sky between the overhanging houses. The stars in the frosty heavens winked like icicles.

‘Thank You, Lord,’ Josiah whispered. ‘For my good fortune.’

Stanker scratched the side of his unshaven cheek, one finger tracing the scar. At any other time, with such bounty in his hand, he would have headed like a ferret down a hole, back into the warm glow of the tavern. However, despite the ale he had drunk, Stanker was still curious. Who was Scarlet Plume? How would she or he know him? Stanker opened his mouth and, with his tongue, in a favourite gesture, counted his remaining teeth – ‘the yellow stumps’ as he called them. Then he sniffed: was that a smell of burning? Dear God, not again! Stanker had a fear of fire. He would never forget that night, twelve years ago, when he had fled as God’s fire had raged through the city. But, no, it was only smoke from a cookshop.

Somewhere down the alleyway, the same noisy prostitute screamed as a customer took her violently. Stanker was aware of the mist curling in from the river: one of those hideous London smogs which came creeping in like the very gas of Hell. He’d go into the tavern, he decided, spend the night roistering, drink Scarlet Plume’s health and ponder more upon this mystery.

Scarlet Plume had by now reached the Duke’s Theatre, hastening towards the welcoming glow of light issuing from its doors which were flung open to the cobbled street. The usual crowd had gathered, thronging into their seats. Scarlet Plume was not opposed, bustling forward, swaggering, cloak thrown back, fingers tapping the sword hilt, eyes watching the crowd. The jilts, strumpets, whores and doxies were out in force tonight. Some were quite pretty, others, with their shabby wigs and white, painted faces, more desperate than alluring. Ballad-singers and storytellers swarmed about trying to sell greasy hand-bills. One, more enterprising than the rest, lounged against a pillar just within the doorway, shouting for customers to visit ‘Mr Taverner’s Curiosities in Fleet Street’.

‘I tell you, sirs, gentle ladies. A picture of an elephant who will drink nothing but wine! A Moor all stuffed with straw, his hair and beard as white as snow! The asp which bit sweet Cleopatra’s breast! The sling and stone which brought down the great Goliath!’

Scarlet Plume pushed on by. The shabby entrance hall was full of the good and the great, of people of every estate. Be-wigged, silken-clad courtiers, their beautiful brocaded suits decorated with ribbons, rubbed shoulders with portly merchants in their stained coats. The latter rested on walking-canes as they surveyed the throng and quietly told themselves they had only come to see what evils the theatre really held! The air was pungent with tobacco smoke, unwashed bodies, the cheap perfume from the ladies of the night and the bitter-sweet smell of oranges. The sellers of these, young girls and boys with trays fastened round their necks, voices strident, pushed people aside. No respector of status or station, they fought rivals off to sell their oranges before the play began. Garish hand-bills on the walls proclaimed that tonight’s performance was Beaumont and Fletcher’s Women Pleased.

‘Excuse me, sir! Oh, sir, please excuse me!’

Scarlet Plume looked down. A small, silver-haired man with the soft, wrinkled face of a preacher, dressed in the dark garb of a clergyman, plucked at his sleeve, fingers moving to caress the backs of the brocaded gloves.

‘Yes?’ Scarlet Plume demanded.

‘I have a good book for you to see, sir.’

‘I have my own copy of the Bible,’ Scarlet Plume retorted. ‘Surely this is not the place for Holy Writ?’

‘Oh no, sir.’ The soft grey eyes seemed to fill with tears, lips puckered in a smile. ‘I have a book full of pleasure.’ He opened his cloak and pulled out a hand-bill and thrust it into Scarlet Plume’s hand. ‘I have this, sir, for your personal perusal, should you wish.’

Scarlet Plume read the hand-bill, and laughed out loud, a clear ringing sound which carried across the entrance hall.

‘Why, sir, I apologise.’ Scarlet Plume stepped back, sketched a bow and thrust the bill back into the man’s hand. ‘I thought you were a preacher. I have no desire to read the Conversations of Octavia.’

‘You know the book, sir?’ The voice still remained courteous though the face had lost its sanctimonious look.

‘I know bawdy when I see it!’ Scarlet Plume replied. ‘Full of pictures, eh? Of young women in a number of postures?’

A simpering look confirmed this. Scarlet Plume’s hand fell to the sword.

‘Now, sir, take your dirt and disappear before I call the bailiff’s men!’

The printer and seller of lewd tracts disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. Scarlet Plume looked round, searching for the Government men, the spies, the bully boys of the Green Ribbon Club, the mongrels and mastiffs of Shaftesbury’s coven. But there were no faces to be recognised. No one peering from shadowy corners, just flushed, sweaty faces, wet lips and glittering eyes. A young bawd caught the searching glance and hurried over. She was garbed in a low-cut dress, breasts peeping out from her bodice, her face pasty-white and highly rouged, beauty spots on her cheeks.

‘You are looking for something, sir?’

‘We are always looking for something, madam.’

The bawd’s hand went out to brush Scarlet Plume’s breeches just beneath the belt.

‘Madam!’ Scarlet Plume admonished. ‘Do not do that!’

‘Why not?’ The hand was withdrawn, the voice rose slightly.

‘Because what I have there would surprise you.’ Scarlet Plume’s lips parted in a smile. ‘And even if it didn’t, it’s not for you.’

The bawd made an obscene gesture and flounced away. Scarlet Plume pushed and shoved and entered the theatre. Ill-lit with smelly, tallow candles, the pit was packed with a noisy crowd. The stench was great. Scarlet Plume sniffed at the small perfumed sachet stitched into the lining of one brocaded glove and stared around. The boxes above the stage were full of the so-called better quality: men and women, most of them masked, shouting and screaming at each other. Some had brought bottles of sack. Others, having finished their oranges, were now pelting the pit with skins.

‘Excuse me, sir, you are standing in my spot!’

Scarlet Plume turned. The young man who stood so threateningly was tall, slim-built, his face almost masked by the broad-brimmed hat he wore, its front tugged down to cover his eyes. His was a strong, sunburnt face with a laughing mouth, high cheekbones and slanted, mischievous green eyes. His nose was slightly crooked, a small scar high on his left cheek. He was dressed simply in a black coat, unbuttoned, to reveal a white cravat and a scarlet embroidered waistcoat. Scarlet Plume stepped back and looked the man up and down, taking in the high riding boots pulled up just under his knee, the blue sash round his waist, the quilted breeches and, above all, the broad leather swordbelt, a rapier sheathed on his left, a small dagger on his right.

‘I did not know this was your spot, sir,’ Scarlet Plume remarked.

‘I paid good silver,’ the stranger replied, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. ‘Wellingbone the manager would take an oath that I paid good coin so my spot I’ll take.’

‘Shut up, you two cocks!’ a voice bellowed from behind them. ‘The play is about to begin.’

‘Yes!’ someone else bawled. ‘Take your quarrel elsewhere. No swords here!’

Scarlet Plume sketched a bow, turned in the direction of the voices, tongue protruding, an insulting gesture which silenced any further objections.

‘I will call you a liar, sir.’ Scarlet Plume turned back to the stranger. ‘You are a liar and a thief.’

‘We’ll call the Watch!’ a voice shouted.

‘We’d best leave. My name, sir,’ the stranger bowed gallantly towards Scarlet Plume, ‘is Samuel Atkins.’

‘Is it truly?’ Scarlet Plume whispered, taking a step forward, face only a few inches from Atkins. ‘I take my words back, sir. You are not a liar but you are a thief. I believe you have stolen something from me.’

‘And I shall not give it back.’ Atkins’s voice was low and cool. ‘Do you understand? I shall never give back what is mine. It has always been mine, it is mine and it shall be mine!’

‘Even if I begged you?’ Scarlet Plume hissed.

‘Even if you begged me.’ Atkins’s face drew closer. ‘You could go down on your knees, you could draw your sword and place the point above my heart, I would still refuse to give way.’

‘Are you so cruel?’ Scarlet Plume taunted. ‘Are you so hard of heart?’

‘Not hard of heart,’ Atkins replied, ‘but resolute of soul. How can I return that which I cannot give up? How can I withdraw from something that is part of me?’

‘What’s this?’ a voice shouted. ‘I came to watch the play!’

One of the porters, aware of the growing confrontation, shouldered his way through the crowd, shoving aside the ruffians and orange-sellers, slapping a thick cudgel from one hand to another.

‘What’s this? What’s this?’

His words were drowned by the shrill blast of a trumpet, the signal for the First Act. The manager of the troupe was already on the stage, hands raised, begging for silence.

‘We have a difference of opinion, sir.’ Scarlet Plume turned. ‘Over this spot. This gentleman claims Mr Welling-bone sold it to him but I know he sold it to me.’

‘Well, you’d best see Mr Wellingbone himself, sirs,’ the porter declared, pointing across the pit to a small side door. ‘Go through there and up the stairs.’

Scarlet Plume and Atkins followed his directions. They left the noisy pit and went up a spiral, wooden staircase built into the side of the theatre: a draughty place of guttering lights and squeaking rats. On one occasion Atkins stopped in horror. An iron candelabra high in the wall had flickered out. At first he thought the holder was moving but then realised it was a large rat gnawing at the remains of the tallow. The creature didn’t even scuttle away as they approached. At the top of one stairwell was a battered, yellow-painted door. Atkins felt along the ledge at the top, took down the key and opened it. Scarlet Plume followed him in. Atkins closed the door, turning the key in the lock, then grabbed Scarlet Plume by the arm, knocking off the broad-brimmed hat so the thick coiled hair fell down in tresses.

‘Maria Eleanora!’ he whispered.

He plucked off the black, white-edged mask and stared down at this woman who infatuated him, dominated his every thought, yet about whom he was deeply worried.

‘You look sad, Atkins.’ She glanced coyly up. ‘I’ll be sadder still if you don’t kiss me.’

Samuel held her close and pressed his mouth against hers. Her lips tasted sweet, he could feel her tongue and warm breath, the crushed perfume she rubbed into her skin. His hands circled her slim waist. He released the silver chains of her heavy cloak and pressed his body against hers.

‘How on earth can anyone see you as a man?’

Maria Eleanora laughed softly and pushed him away. ‘Wellingbone has done us proud.’

She gestured sarcastically round the tawdry chamber: blue paper up on the windows against the flies, bare lime-washed walls. One had a baize cloth hung against it, depicting a very fat Venus being chased by an even plumper Cupid. A hooded candle flickered on the dresser. The dangerously weak-looking table, however, was covered with a clean white cloth and bore a pewter jug, two goblets and a dish wrapped in a linen napkin against the rats. On either side of the table were two high-backed stools and, in the corner, a small, four-sided cot bed.

‘Wellingbone, hopeful as ever,’ Atkins declared, following her gaze.

He stood back. Maria Eleanora, he thought, you are the most beautiful woman I have met. She had now taken off her cloak, to reveal the fashionable attire of a court buck, a dark-blue, velvet waistcoat fringed at the hip, its lapels falling down to just above the groin. Breeches of the same colour, tight-fitting, ribbons fastened below the knee, dark-brown calfskin boots. The doublet was open to reveal a pure white shirt, a band of the same colour round her lovely throat. The pendants hanging from her earlobes accentuated the black mass of untidy hair. Atkins would never forget her face: olive-skinned, oval, a perfectly formed nose above a laughing mouth and lips made to kiss. Her eyes were a strange dark-blue, the legacy of her English father.

‘What are you staring at?’

Maria Eleanora struck a pose, like that of a court fop; one hand on her hip, the other above her head. She did a pirouette. The swordbelt clanked against her leg. She smiled apologetically, undid the belt and let it fall to the floor.

‘Is that all you are taking off?’ Atkins asked huskily.

The smile faded from Maria Eleanora’s eyes.

‘I am the Lady Maria Eleanora Gonzales Esqueba de Valeroma!’

‘I know who you are.’

‘I am a Catholic and a gentlewoman,’ Maria Eleanora continued in a rush. ‘Principal lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty Catherine of Braganza, wife of Charles II and Queen of England. More importantly,’ her eyes flashed angrily, ‘I am the lover of Samuel Atkins, clerk to the Secretary of State for the Navy, Mr Samuel Pepys of Derby House. I am not a whore, a bawd, a jilt or a prostitute. Of course, you have too much honour and regard for me to treat me as such.’

She went closer, put her arms round Atkins’s neck, stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips, knocking his hat off with her hand. ‘You English,’ she sighed. ‘Pretend to be so cold and righteous but, when you trap a lady in a closet or a chamber, you have more hands than a spider has legs.’ She gazed up at him solemnly. ‘On our wedding night, Samuel, as is right, not here in this dirty chamber. Only the Lord knows where Wellingbone is, with his watery eyes and slobbery mouth.’

‘He can’t hear us,’ Atkins affirmed, putting his arms round her waist. ‘I have checked this room myself. God help us, Maria, if He can. I’d be for Newgate and you’d be for disgrace.’

‘Why?’ Maria Eleanora’s arms slid from his neck.

Atkins swallowed hard. He had served as an officer in the Navy, fought the Dutch in the Narrow Seas and he wasn’t frightened of anything. Standing over six foot in his stockinged feet, Master Samuel Atkins in his dark fustian suit and plain linen shirt had no airs and graces. He wore a rapier and a dagger. He was frightened of no one, except Maria Eleanora in a temper. He scratched his head and looked at her from under his eyebrows.

‘You have a long face, Mr Atkins.’ Maria Eleanora turned sideways, glaring at him from the corner of her eye. ‘A handsome face, a strong face and a firm jaw – but you’re troubled?’

Samuel decided to break the confrontation. He took off his cloak, slung it over the bed and went and sat down on one of the table stools, gesturing at Maria Eleanora to join him. He loosened his collar and scratched at a bead of sweat.

‘Downstairs . . .’ he whispered across the table, filling a goblet. He paused as Maria Eleanora, throwing back her hair, gathered it at the nape. She made a quick sign of the cross before lifting the goblet in a toast. ‘Downstairs . . .’ Samuel repeated, heart sinking at the innocent look in her eyes. He would need plenty of wine to pluck up the courage to say his next words.

‘Downstairs?’ Maria Eleanora cocked her head as if listening to the faint sounds below. ‘People are eating oranges, watching the play and sweating like pigs.’

‘Some of them are wolves!’

‘Oh no.’ She shook her head. ‘Surely, Samuel, not that path again.’

‘You dress like a man.’

‘That’s the only way I can meet you. I’ve told you before, my father was an English merchant, a Catholic who fell in love with my mother and had the courage to pursue her. He fought five duels with her brothers, my uncles. My father wanted boys; instead he begot me and my three sisters.’

Samuel laughed.

‘My father would never be frustrated,’ she went on. ‘We were dressed like boys. We were taught to ride like boys and duel like boys.’

‘Do you like your disguise?’

‘For a while I did. Have you ever worn a bodice and stays? Had your chest supported by a piece of steel you might fire from one of your cannons? Your waist tied so tight you can hardly breathe! And have you ever done embroidery, Samuel? Sat with a group of old women whose chatter would make you drive the needle through your brain?’ She pushed back the stool and got restlessly to her feet. ‘Have you ever tried to walk along cobbles on high heels until the pain in your neck makes you scream? Or listen to some dancing master who is really more interested in your page than he is in you?’ She leaned across the table and kissed him swiftly on the tip of his nose. ‘To be free, my dear Samuel, that is what my father taught us. Not to be men but to have a little part of our lives where we could run as free as the deer on a hill.’

‘Some deer,’ Samuel muttered. ‘It’s not the deer I’m worrying about but the wolves.’

Maria Eleanora stamped her foot. She went across, picked up her swordbelt and drew out her rapier. She brought it up in a salute of honour, the blade flat against her nose. Down it came, the tip towards him. She turned sideways, head slightly back, the other hand going up, fingers elegantly curled.

‘On guard!’

Samuel watched, fascinated. Maria Eleanora moved like a dancer, her sword arm almost staying still, her supple wrist turning and twisting the rapier only a few inches from his face, a whirling arc of steel. No other sound except the slight shuffle of her feet, the quick intake of breath. She lowered the sword.

‘Portugal has the best duelling masters. Even His Majesty, God bless him, has said the same.’

‘Maria Eleanora!’ Atkins got to his feet and plucked the sword from her hand. He held her fingers up and kissed each one. ‘You are a fire-fly,’ he murmured, rapt. ‘My Portuguese fire-fly.’

‘That doesn’t sound very nice.’

‘It’s meant to.’

She was watching his eyes intently.

‘Do you love me, Samuel Atkins?’

‘I love you as much as I worry about you. I do not doubt your strength, your courage, your fire – or the power of your sword arm. In that matter,’ he grinned, ‘I would not go up against you. But that’s not the way they come, my love. They are worse than rats. They skulk in alleyways with stiletto or pistol. Worse still, they hunt in packs.’

‘I am safe,’ she replied, re-sheathing her sword and returning to her seat. She pulled back the napkin and peered at the bread and cheese.

‘It’s fresh,’ Atkins declared. ‘Wellingbone is well paid. He knows I’ll put a good word in for him.’

‘So, he knows who you are?’

‘He suspects I have friends in high places.’

‘Like Mr Pepys?’

‘Indeed. Mr Samuel Pepys, widower, Secretary for the Navy, close friend and confidant of the King’s brother James, Duke of York, Lord High Admiral of England.’

‘Is Mr Pepys worried about you?’

‘He is very worried. He knows nothing of you,’ Atkins continued in a rush, ‘but he’s greatly a-feared.’

‘Of what?’ Maria Eleanora picked up the knife, cut off a piece of cheese and popped it into her mouth. ‘Of what, Samuel? Who are the “they” who skulk in alleyways?’

‘There are men downstairs,’ Atkins said slowly, ‘who would attack, strip, ravish and kill you.’ He tapped a pewter goblet. ‘For one of these half-full. But they are only the dogs, not the masters; they can be hired by the dozen.’

‘I have heard the rumours,’ Maria Eleanora nodded, ‘of plots and counter-plots. The Queen will not discuss them. She sits with her psalter or her embroidery or takes her dogs for a walk in the park.’ The young woman’s eyes grew tender.

‘Do you love her?’ Samuel asked.

‘Catherine of Braganza,’ Maria Eleanora declared, ‘is small, plump and barren. She adores the King. She worships the very ground he treads on. When he turns and smiles, she becomes another woman yet he betrays her and is sorry for that betrayal. He comes to her chamber dressed like a gallant, civil and courteous in every gesture. He will sit and listen, take a glass of Madeira and then be off to his whores!’

Atkins’s hand came up.

‘No, they are whores,’ Maria Eleanora continued, ‘be they Nell Gwynn or the Duchess of Portsmouth. Nell I like, Portsmouth is an arrogant bitch. If she was a man I w. . .