I went to him for two reasons: I had been
summoned, and I wanted to go.
He welcomed
me with open arms, greeting me with a kiss before leading me to his bed. It was
a king’s bed—draped in velvet, piled high with pillows. He left the candles
lit; he said that he wanted to see me. I do not think that he liked darkness.
So much of his life had been lived in it. I did not greatly care for it,
either, and for the same reason.
He was a good lover. Sensual men often are,
and he was more learned than most. More practiced. I was not so experienced,
but I was inventive and this he appreciated. I did my best to please him and
was rewarded with a moment’s peace in the haven of his embrace.
Everyone loved him—even his enemies, once
they came to know him. He was difficult to offend and disinclined to cruelty
himself. And he loved me, for a while.
I loved him, too.
I was surprised to discover this. I had
believed it impossible to love any man as much as I had loved Lucien, but I was
wrong. I fell in love with the King of England.
Was it his kindness that swayed me? His low
voice, his easy laugh, his lazy wit—they were all attractive traits, but not
unique. He wasn’t even particularly handsome, though his black hair and dark
eyes reminded me of my beloved Lucien. Perhaps his kindness reminded me as
well, and this was how I came to feel more than mere gratitude for the
sanctuary he offered. He treated me like gold. When we were alone together, I
was all that mattered. His desire fed on mine, and so he took pains to satisfy
us both.
I was never really satisfied until after he
had spent his seed. Then I could lie in his arms and know absolute bliss until
the moment when I had to leave him. I did not even want his blood. All I wanted
was the security of his presence. No one dared interrupt us; no one dared harm
him, or me, for as long as he wanted me. Most women bedded the King for the
power they felt he could give them. I bedded him for solace.
One night, I got up and began snuffing the
candles. “Weary of looking at me, my dear?” he drawled, teasing.
“Nay, sire. I would have you to myself and
will not share you with the light a moment longer.”
He was too jaded to be bought with flattery.
“Come now,” he said as I rejoined him between the sheets, “this is odd
behaviour. Why the cover of darkness?”
I lay down with him. His arms enfolded me,
sheltering me like an eagle’s wings. He was strong and lean, possessed of
remarkable vitality. He might not favour the shadows, but his mind was already
working to make appropriate use of them. I cuddled closer, pressing my cheek to
his chest. “Sometimes,” I whispered, “the light frightens me.”
He made no reply. He kissed the top of my
head, perhaps understanding my fear but unwilling to admit it. I slid my arms
around him and closed my eyes. I was afraid, though not of the light. Not of
him. Not even of de Gras, who would surely beat me if I returned before the
crack of dawn. I was afraid of myself, afraid of having confessed fear to this
man, to this king who was a mere mortal; who could not, when considered in the
full light of day, protect me from my fate.
“Is it your husband?” he murmured.
Husband. My face clenched around the sudden threat of tears. “No,” I said
harshly. “He does not frighten me.”
“Oddsfish, the fellow frightens me,” he
declared.
His wry tone surprised me into laughter,
turning melancholia to ardour in the space of a heartbeat. We made love again,
then he slept; and for a few hours, I let myself dream that I was not the King
of England’s mistress, but the blacksmith’s wife once more.
He was very much like Lucien without being
like him at all. He was as beloved, as tolerant, as easygoing and amusing as
Lucien had been, but he was not a man to be trusted with a woman’s heart. He
was willing to give so much and nothing more, he disliked contention and was
quick to move on if his current fancy became too demanding. He had few
illusions concerning the nature of female affection, and the females to whom he
was most attracted tended to prove his point. And the wife of a troublesome
husband was to be avoided at all cost.
I was beautiful, but my keeper (I would not
call him “husband”) was violent enough by reputation to make me a bad risk for
the average courtier. Charles Stuart was not an average courtier. I knew at
first sight that I wanted him and I knew exactly why. Kings must be left to the
fate of mortals. De Gras was helpless to act on his jealousy by harming
Charles, and his threat of harming me was no deterrent. Though I had no hope of
escaping it entirely, if I could be guaranteed a few hours’ respite from the
misery of my existence, nothing would stop me from pursuing it. There was no
safer place than the King’s bed.
I believe that he felt as safe with me. I
made no demands. I displayed no temper. I did not try to direct him in matters
of ruling. I even refused the tokens he would have given me, for he was
generous with his women and liked presenting little gifts of gold or jewels. He
insisted at first, stating that I must have something of value should I bear
his child. When I told him that I was barren, he stared for a moment, then
said: “Oddsfish, you would make a fine Queen.” We both laughed, though he
seemed somewhat disappointed. He loved his children even after his affection
for their mothers had dissipated, but he was genuinely fond of me and might
have liked us to have a child together.
I would have liked it too. But of course it
was impossible.
What French he spoke was not fluent, so I
taught him bits and pieces. He enjoyed learning the bawdier terms and we spent
many hours laughing together over his lessons. He named le petit mort as
his favourite phrase, argued that it was also a verb and, when I argued against
him, set about convincing me to his cause.
He was a deeply sensual man. He could not
help but inspire similar feelings in me. I loved to be with him; loved his
sinewy strength and the rasp of his beard on my skin. I did not care for the
perfume that lingered from his clothes, but I adored the warm, earthy scent of
his flesh and the taste of salt on my tongue. My body loved him, hungered for
him; and in the torrid throes of passion, the fever swelled in my throat to
tempt me with his blood. I was reminded at such moments that to most he might
be a king, but to me he was just a man. Just a mortal as vulnerable to my appetite
as countless women were to his.
We began to talk as our relationship
progressed. I doubt that he meant to keep me for so long; his interest tended
to wane upon the heels of conquest. He said that I was different, that he could
not tire of me because I did not make him weary. Then he asked me to accept a
choker set with diamonds that he said matched my eyes. I refused.
“Then what can I give you?” he asked,
exasperated. “Surely you must want something of me.”
“I have it, sire,” I replied. “Each time I
see you, I have what I want.”
He eyed me mistrustfully, certain that I was
lying. Or hoping that I was. He made a point of staying out of his mistresses’
personal lives. He wanted nothing to do with husbands or brothers who might
disrupt his pleasure, but he looked hard at me and found himself caring more
than he had intended.
“This man of yours, this de Gras,” he said
slowly, “how did you come upon him?”
I did not want to discuss the matter and
reached down to distract him, but he caught my wrist and held me fast, forcing
me to meet his gaze.
“Tell me,” he said.
My vision glazed almost immediately. I hoped
that he would be dissuaded by the prospect of my weeping, but I was wrong. He
raised my captured hand to his lips and gently kissed it. I swallowed tears,
determined to be brave. “I did not come upon him,” I said quietly. “He came
upon me.”
“An arranged match?” he inquired.
I shook my head. “I was already married. De
Gras … stole me from my husband.”
“You were kidnapped?”
“I suppose so.”
He studied me for a long, silent moment. He
had seen many things in his life and had learned to read faces for the truth.
Though my story had the makings of a whopping good fiction, I had no reason to
lie and Charles saw this. All traces of his usual good humour had vanished. “I
did wonder why a Frenchman with no apparent wealth would come to England,” he
remarked.
“There was no cause to stay in France,” I
said.
“Do you not mean that there was greater cause
to leave?”
I smiled weakly. “Not the cause you might
think, sire. My husband is dead. I have nothing there anymore.”
“Oh, my dear,” he sighed, genuinely
sympathetic. His nature was compassionate enough to allow him the freedom of
embracing me here, in the privacy of his bed, and this he did, gathering me
close to his chest and stroking my hair with a gentle hand.
I did not cry. I did not fall upon him and
lament my circumstance in a fury of tears. I lay very still and very silent,
biting back rage. If I loosed it, if I shouted that he had betrayed me, I would
be forever banished from this haven where love and tranquility were guaranteed.
But they were guaranteed no longer. He had
made me speak of Lucien. He had made me recall the beginning of this nightmare
when all I asked of him was comfort. He knew more than I wanted him to know. I
had depended on his own rule against interfering and he had broken it.
“What can I do?” he mused, moved beyond his
established limits and pragmatic enough to accept the fact. “What can I do for
you, little Janie?”
“Do not speak of it again,” I rasped. “I will
not have you speak of it again!”
“But there must be something,” he insisted.
“I will write to my sister in France—”
“Don’t!” I cried, pulling away from him. I
felt my soul detaching as well, ripping a little as it broke free. “There is nothing
you can do, and if there was I would not have you do it!”
My indignation seemed to amuse him.
“Sweetheart, you forget. I am the King of England.”
“You are the king of nothing,” I retorted
hotly. I thrashed my way out of bed and turned on him. “You are a man; a frail
mortal with power over nothing! How could you do this? How could you? I come to
you for peace and pleasure, things so easily given, things you yourself seek
from every woman you bed! You give me comfort simply by being, yet you
would destroy that comfort by forcing me to speak of things you would rather
not know. Do not help me. I am beyond help. All I wanted was sanctuary, and now
even that promise is worthless.”
He was thoroughly baffled by my outburst, no
doubt thinking it odd that a woman would refuse any gesture he was willing to
make that might better her situation. Typically, he attempted to make light of
it, but he did not understand. He could not. It was impossible.
“Come to bed, love,” he purred, growling deep
in his chest. “I’ll speak of it no more, if that is your wish, but come back to
bed.”
I stood alone, arms clamped tight across my
middle, trembling with cold and unshed tears. I saw then that I was dreaming,
that all he had given me was the illusion of peace. I was bound by the same law
that spared him from de Gras. I could not make him immortal. I could not lie
safe within the circle of his arms forever. He was just a man.
He beckoned to me from the shelter of the
bed. “Come, my dear,” he said, coaxing.
Swallowing the grief which had risen in my
throat, I went forward. I took his hand and let him draw me beneath the quilts;
let him embrace and kiss me; let him make love to me as he had done a dozen
times before. I let my body love him for the last time and then, just as he reached
out to grasp son petit mort, my fangs found the swell of his jugular and
pierced it.
He groaned in prolonged ecstasy. My limbs
clamped tight around him and his blood flowed thick and dusky over my tongue.
So this was how a king’s blood tasted. It was not like ordinary blood at all.
It matched the difference between water and wine. It was dark and rich and
powerful. I could not have drained him without making myself ill, so I took
only a little; just a token to carry with me for as long as it lasted.
It has lasted to this day.
No book has been written about Charles II
that I have not added to my library. It is too vast a collection to take
everywhere; the bulk of it resides on the shelves of my estate in Surrey. But I
have a few favourites that travel with me wherever I go. Julian believes that
my affection for Restoration England stems from the fact that I met and made
him in the months following my affair with the King. He can be so sweetly
arrogant at times. So naive to think himself the only one to have touched my
aching, eternal heart. I cannot be bothered to tell him otherwise. He would not
believe me anyway.
But now you know. Are you surprised?
September 21, 1999
Revised March 9, 2012
copyright by Ruth R. Greig
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