She knew her husband’s diplomacy was second to none, but then in both of his previous lives his tact and wisdom had been deeper than that commanded by most men.
From the beach the royal party made their way to a cobbled area that bounded the wharves. There awaited them a huge crowd waving flags and flowers, at their fore the Mayor of Dover and the man to whom Charles owed his restoration: General Monck.
Monck stepped forward first and, stunningly, for none had expected this, dropped to his knee before Charles and kissed his ring before raising his face to the king and welcoming him with words of both loyalty and honour. Charles drew him gently to his feet, kissed him on either cheek, and spoke soft words of gratitude and admiration to him which made Monk’s face flush with pleasure.
Then, once the mayor had greeted Charles, the ordnance of Dover Castle roared into life, and after that, in quick succession, the ordnance of every military establishment, camp and castle that lined the roads and sat upon the hills. At the deafening sound of cannon and gun, huge bonfires, set on the hilltops stretching from Dover all the way to the Tower in London leapt into life, so that the entire south-eastern corner of England roared and shook and thundered and flamed in honour of their king.
Charles was home.
Dover to Blackheath, Kent
Charles and Catharine rested the night in Dover, both with terrible headaches from the noise of the cannon. Next morning, their headaches dissipated, they proceeded by open coach through the port town and thence onto the road to Canterbury. Again, Charles and Catharine were dressed with considerable splendour as well as gaiety; they were happy, and they wanted all to see it. James rode just behind their coach, almost as richly dressed as Charles, and behind him came a great train of courtiers and nobles and soldiers, both mounted and on foot.
They travelled slowly. In part this was, again, because Charles wished to delay his arrival into London until his thirtieth birthday, but in part it was also necessity.
The roads were lined by local militia, resplendent in their uniforms, along with the people come to see their returning king; at times the crowds were so thick it was impossible for Charles’ coach to proceed at anything faster than a walk. As the militia saluted, the people shouted and waved, sang and danced, and everywhere maidens threw handfuls of herbs onto the road before Charles’ coach.
Charles appeared the epitome of gracious happiness. He smiled and called out good-naturedly to the crowds, thanking them for their grace in welcoming him. Sometimes he stood, and took Catharine’s hand, and introduced her to the crowd as his “most divinely beautiful and gracious beloved, my wife, Catharine, your queen”, and the crowds loved it as Catharine flushed.
By the night of the 26th they had reached Canterbury, where Charles and Catharine attended service in the ancient cathedral and the king met for the first time with his Privy Council. Charles took the opportunity to once again thank General Monck for his support and wisdom and advice, and present him with the Order of the Garter. They spent the night in Canterbury, then proceeded in much the same manner the following day, the crowds and joy no less thick, to the town of Rochester.
From Rochester they made their way on the 28th of May to Blackheath, the windy plateau rising above Greenwich and only an hour or so by a fast horse from London. Charles was increasingly nervous, although he hid it well. At night, alone with Catharine, he worried that he’d not heard from Louis, or even from Marguerite and Kate who he had expected to be among the first to welcome him to England.
“They may be in London,” Catharine had tried to reassure him.
“Damn it, Catharine! Louis knows I will be ill with worry!”
“Then perhaps he has Noah safely, but cannot move for fear of discovery.”
“I pray it be so,” Charles said.
At Blackheath, Charles and Catharine took (or were offered on bent knee, rather) the house of a local dignitary that stood on the ridge of the heath and overlooked London in the distance. That evening, having somehow managed to extricate themselves from all the hangers-on, servants, courtiers, clerks and sundry other officials that forever crowded about a king, Charles and Catharine stood at the window on the first floor gallery which looked north-westwards.
It was a clear, calm evening, the setting sun silvering the gentle sweep of the Thames, and touching with gold the green trees and flowered gardens and meadows that stretched from the edges of Blackheath to the banks of the river some two miles distant.
Charles stood behind Catharine, gently cradling her against his body. He was almost physically ill with worry, but standing there, looking at what had been unattainable for so long as it lay in the far distance, feeling Catharine’s gentle warmth suffuse his body, he could almost forget his troubles.
“Catharine…” he said, nuzzling his mouth against her neck.
She smiled, leaning her body even more firmly against his. “And wouldn’t it be a tragedy, beloved, if Noah were to suddenly burst through those doors behind us right now?”
He laughed, his breath fanning out against her skin, making her shudder. “Noah would understand.”
“Aye,” Catharine whispered, her eyes now closed, her head tilted back so that Charles could run his mouth teasingly up and down her neck, “Charles—”
The doors behind them suddenly burst open and Charles and Catharine sprang apart, as if someone had thrown a pail of icy water over them, before spinning about to face the door.
“My God,” Charles whispered.
Louis de Silva stood there, his hands held out at his side, palm outwards, his face the epitome of despair, explaining his failure more than ever words might.
“Louis,” Catharine said, reaching out a silk-clad arm to him.
“I couldn’t save her,” Louis said, his voice breaking. “Weyland has her, now.”
They sat, the three of them, on the window seat, looking out to London. Louis told them as best he could of what had happened: how he had missed Noah because the giants Gog and Magog had spirited him away to the Guildhall, there to tell him that Noah needed to go to Weyland, and that Louis had no right to stop her.
“I had no right,” Louis said. “Me. No right.”
“Louis—” Charles began.
“The giants showed me a vision,” Louis said, and as he spoke, he raised eyes filled with what looked like resentment. “They showed me the Stag God, lying in a glade.”
Charles’ face went expressionless, and, imperceptibly, he leaned back, as if putting distance between Louis and himself.
“He lay on the floor of the glade, cruelly injured. And then you walked in, Charles, in all your majesty as England’s king, and there came a blinding flash, and when it had cleared the Stag God stood there, healed and pulsing with a glorious ancient power.”
Catharine felt Charles’ hand tighten across her shoulders.
“The Stag God will rise, the giants told me, and nothing else matters save that. Nothing. Not even Noah’s torture at Weyland’s hands. She shall be saved, aye, but it will be the Stag God who shall rescue her. Not me. The Stag God, Charles. You.”
“Do you mind?” said Charles, very softly, and after a long moment’s silence, his eyes steady on Louis.
Louis returned the stare, and then suddenly all the resentment and bitterness seemed to drain from him and his body sagged.
“No.” Louis managed a small and infinitely sad smile. “Not truly. I would rather it were me…but you…I can accept that. Save her, Charles. Please.”
“The Stag God shall save her, and together he and Eaving shall save the land,” said Charles.
He reached out his hand from Catharine and put it on Louis’ shoulder. “Get some rest now, Louis. We have a great day before us tomorrow. London.”
“And somewhere within London,” Louis whispered, still clearly distraught, “Noah. What shall she think when we ride past in golden, laughing glory, and she imprisoned in hell?”
Much later, when Charles and Catharine were in bed, Charles sighed, and spoke sadly.
“Louis truly should learn to read visions better.”
Her head nestled against Charles’ naked chest, Catharine managed a small smile. “Louis was ever poor at reading vision, beloved. It is not the most widespread of arts.”
Charles smiled, and kissed the top of her head.
“What shall you do?” said Catharine.
He was quiet for a moment.
“There is a crown to accept,” he said, finally, “and I shall take it with glad heart.”
Seven
The Realm of the Faerie
Night intensified over Blackheath. All was still. As Charles and his entourage slid deeper into their dreams the heath beyond the windows appeared to ripple. For an instant—so fleeting that had you blinked you would have missed it—the heath vanished and infinite rolling wooded hills replaced it. And then the heath was back. Still. Silent.