Page 51 of Ondine

Ondine knew that she lay curled on the floor before the fire, a carpet their bed, her husband’s chest her pillow, her discarded gown of the night before a covering for her feet.

She was barely awake, drifting in some netherland of soft clouds and ease, when she was jolted to awareness by the heavy sounds of footsteps in the hall outside their door. Then horrendous pounding at that same door penetrated cruelly into her world of pleasant dreams.

Beside her, Warwick stirred abruptly, swearing out a ragged groan. “Damnation!” He rose, reaching quickly for his breeches.

Still dazed, Ondine stared up at him in confusion as he pulled on his pants.

“’Tis the king,” he told her, “and yonder door is not bolted; Jake stayed beyond it, and I did not think to come upon you, er, here, and remain here so!” Dear Lord, but she was beautiful!

Soft with sleep, touched by daylight, her hair a gold and tawny cloak about shoulders as sleek as satin and pure as ivory.

Her eyes were so like the sea from which an enchanting siren might well spring.

Ondine, a mythical creature, granted eternal life through marriage to a mortal.

Aye, he’d granted her life. He could not take it, nor could he linger on thoughts of her now, for the door would surely spring forth, since it was unlocked.

He touched her chin, knowing he must repudiate her soon, unable for that moment to be anything but gentle and tender. “My love! The king is here. I was to have met him early, alas! I knew such comfort, I did not awaken. Ondine, the king comes; he’ll enter.”

“Oh!” she gasped, startled, realizing too late the import of his words. The door flew open as with an impatience of its own. Charles strode within, his retinue pausing behind him at the doorway.

Barefoot, barechested, but decently decked in pants, Warwick by instinct hunched to the floor, holding his wife to him in the gauze folds of her white gown.

Charles paused instantly at the sight. Not in apology, for Chatham had been late, and the purpose for such an outer chamber in a suite was so that a friend or advisor might have a place to greet company.

Nay, he paused, touched, lowering his head with a smile, for it was such a lovely scene, the handsome knight shielding his lady—a great beast protecting his delicate wife.

He bowed low. “Lady Chatham, my apologies. Warwick!”

“Sire!”

“You’re late! The lords of Sudbury and Wane await, and they mean to plague me regarding James. I’ve a need for your tolerance and your tongue; more of this bickering I cannot and will not endure.”

He turned, startled to find his small retinue of guards all staring into the room much as he had done.

At his questioning gaze the fellows cleared their throats and stepped back.

Charles paused then; a wicked grin curling his lip, for he knew the palace.

Within a short time all would hear that the Lord and Lady of Chatham so craved one another that they had no patience to achieve a bed once their passions had flared.

Charles paused, unable to restrain his natural humor. He turned about quickly, catching the Duke of Rochester’s daughter in a deep flush, pulling the white sheath of gown closer to her breasts.

“Lady Chatham, is there something not quite right with the bedding? I’d not be lax in hospitality!”

“Nay, sire!” she gasped out, coloring in a most bewitching way all over again. She realized herself caught in his humor then, and quickly lowered her eyes. Warwick’s arms tightened around her.

Charles did not continue out; he did not, at first, know why he lingered. Then he realized that he was quite taken with the pair of them, and that the future boded nothing but ill for both. He wanted to see them laugh and smile, to enjoy what time they might allow themselves.

“Have you been to the races, Ondine?” he asked.

“Newmarket? Never.”

Charles nodded, satisfied. “I believe I shall make a move for the court. When the tedium of my mewling nobles ends today, we shall set our sights for Newmarket! That is, Warwick Chatham”—Charles’s voice took on that tenor that warned the wise his England was his first concern, no matter what frivolity was displayed—“if you think you can manage to hurry along your appearance.”

With that subtle warning, he closed the door at last.

When he was gone, Warwick, still crouched behind Ondine, sighed and rose, reaching for his hose and boots, stumbling into them.

“This again!” he muttered, casting her a dry gaze.

“And it never will end, for Catherine bears no child, and James remains warned away from court by the king, but he’s still the Catholic heir!

Half the nobles still clamor to have Charles legitimize his bastard son, the Duke of Monmouth, and, by God, Jemmy would make a fine king.

Many swear they’ll never accept a Catholic king; others swear that civil war will rage if James is swept from the secession. ”

He swept his shirt from the floor, buttoning it as he continued to speak. “Then, across the sea, we have William and Mary—the Orangeman panting for his uncle Charles’s death, then that of his father-in-law; he sees the crown of England in his future, and he might well one day achieve that goal.”

Ondine frowned and shivered, bereft of his warmth, yet fascinated that he spoke to her so.

Like a wife.

“Charles is in prime health—” she began.

Buttoning his coat, he leaned and kissed her lips lightly.

“That he is; as long as I live, I will be among those who guard that health and life! But I tell you, he is right—these rumors and pressures regarding the secession grow tedious, and James does little to help, offending even those who fought for him well and once thought him a noble commander.”

Ondine stood, carefully wrapping her gown about her, as Warwick at last reached for his weapons and hat. He paused, sliding his sword to its hilt, watching her.

“Would that I could stay!” he murmured suddenly, fiercely.

He gripped her bare arms, dragged her to him.

Passionately he kissed her lips. When that was done, he pressed his lips to the hollow of her shoulder, the rise of her breast, holding her tightly.

Then with a sigh he released her, moving to the door, lest he forget he owed a king allegiance.

Ondine still trembled from his touch, glorying in the glow that surrounded them. Though it was magic, make-believe, it was still sweet glory.

“Will you enjoy the races?” he asked her lightly, his eyes upon her tender, whimsical.

“Aye, that I will.”

“We move again. Will you pack for me?”

She nodded, still clinging to the sheath of her gown.

He smiled, dipped low in stately courtesy, but paused before he left her, his smile fading.

“Don’t leave. Jake will remain here.”

“Along with the king’s guard,” she reminded him softly.

“Wait for me; don’t leave.”

“I won’t,” she whispered, and he kissed her hurriedly and left.

* * *

It was late when they came to Newmarket, for the king’s retinue was large, and he was a man of such vast energy that not all who chose to serve him could keep his pace.

There was often little warning that he would appear, and on such occasions the innkeepers, merchants, and servants ran in circles, for supplying those involved with the king demanded great resources.

Ondine was fascinated by all the activity.

She rode with Warwick and Justin, and it seemed their moods were all the best, laughter flowing well and easily.

Justin demanded to know the whole story of how Warwick had come upon her, and between them, Warwick and Ondine managed to make light comedy of the story.

“Damn!” Justin exclaimed suddenly, pulling the drapes from the carriage window. “Hardgrave follows us still. And that vixen Anne! She waves most gaily!”

Warwick shrugged. “Let her wave. ’Tis not against the law.”

Justin waved back, green eyes narrowing. “She strikes unease in me each time she doth appear cheerful!”

Again Warwick merely shrugged. Feeling his movement, Ondine turned to stare at him. She discovered that his eyes, amber and musing, were on her. She flushed and spoke to Justin.

* * *

And that night, that night! Later, when she was alone and frightened and tempest tossed, she would remember that night.

A glowing candle to stave off the dark reminder of time, a streak of beautiful, blinding peace against a sea of storms. Remember, ah, yes, ever would that night live in crystal memory, a fragment of eternal beauty.

They were given a small cottage all their own, with simple things. They had a single room, with unadorned table and chairs, a massive hearth, and a massive bed.

Upon their arrival, Ondine found gifts from the king on the bed.

There were belted robes in white, with their initials embroidered in gold upon the great lapels.

Warwick commented that he was gratified to be held in such esteem, for it was obvious that a dozen seamstresses had sewn all morning to create the robes.

And that seemed to be most of their conversation that night. He ordered simple wine and cheese and bread; he left her that she might don the robe and returned to wear his own.