Whitehall: Embarkations

Whitehall Episode 1: "Embarkations"

By Liz Duffy Adams and Delia Sherman

Excerpt:

Barbara Palmer, Countess of Castlemaine, reclined naked in a luxuriously rumpled bed, lit by a single candle and a flood of moonlight. Her mass of chestnut hair, released from its usual ornate confinement, rioted across the linen bolster; one hand rested on her swelling belly. She was the very picture of satiated bliss, an English rose at the height of youthful bloom. Through half-closed eyes, she gazed across the room at the tall man who stood naked at the window, looking out at the midnight garden.

His thirty-two years sat lightly on him, though here and there on his moon-silvered skin, a scar gleamed, the kind got in war. His olive complexion, courtesy of his Italian grandfather, was far from the English pink-and-white ideal, and his long face, with its wide mouth and curling lips, was generally considered imposing but rather ugly. Barbara, however, found his every atom erotic. He was the brilliant Minotaur who did not rend her, dangerous as he might be to others. He was the King of England, and he was hers.

A church bell began to toll, and then another. Three spaniels, curled up together on the edges of the puddled curtains, woke and began howling. Startled, Barbara leaned up on one elbow, but before she could speak, there was a knock at the door.

"Be still," he said to the dogs—who quieted, but came wriggling up to him to be soothed with a stroke and a tug on their ears—and then called out, "Enter!" A young page came in, looking as though he'd been rousted from sleep to bring the note he handed over with a little bow, quite unabashed at the nakedness. The king read, and nodded at the boy.

"Tell Lord Clarendon I'll set off as soon as may be. Now back to bed with you, Will."

The boy grinned and bowed again, and hurried out, not without a sidelong glance at Barbara, who was sitting bolt upright.

"What is it about?" she asked.

Charles II looked back at her from the window. "It seems I am about to be married."

They looked at each other as the bells rolled on. She couldn't read his face. She dropped her gaze and bit her lip. Then she threw back her shoulders and cast him a smile brimming with love, valor, and wry humor. The candlelight fell full upon her face; she knew when she was in her light as well as any actress might.

"Well, darling," she said. "I hope you aren't going to be fanatical about it."

A risk, a calculated risk. He might take this moment to turn serious; Barbara never knew when that side of him might emerge. He stared at her, his dark eyes widening. Then he tipped his head back with a shouted laugh, and came striding back to her bed.

#

The candle guttered out with a hiss, a puddle of wax with a smoking wick, and Barbara woke curled with her back to Charles. While they had sported, the treacherous English weather had sent clouds scudding in to cover the moon, and now the day was dark, with a steady hissing rain. Turning, she saw him awake, one arm behind his head, gazing across the room at nothing.

She said, "Are the cares of married life oppressing your spirits already?"

He laughed shortly under his breath, then sobered. "Can't help wondering what I've let myself in for. A pious little Infanta. Doesn't even speak English."

"So much the better. She'll bring all that lovely Portuguese gold, and lovely little legitimate heirs—and you won't even have to talk to her."

She had meant to make him laugh again. But he reached out and palmed her belly, looking serious.