The King's Chameleon by Richard Woodman

House.’
    â€˜You know where that is?’ asked Clarendon.
    â€˜I do, My Lord.’
    Faulkner took the letter directly from the King’s hand, sensible of the honour done him. This small errand of trust meant more than that he was expected to convey a missive from the King to a nobleman, but was at odds with the serious charge against Henry.
    â€˜Look to your son,’ the King repeated as he waved Faulkner away, appearing to resume work on his papers. Then, just as Faulkner was about to make his final bow, the King caught his eye. ‘And to your wife, Sir Christopher.’
    â€˜Your Majesty.’ Stung, Faulkner bowed and, still perspiring heavily, his mind in a turmoil, backed away from the royal presence.
    When he found himself in the chaos of Whitehall, Faulkner allowed himself a low but heartfelt oath. The King’s reference first to ‘Lady Faulkner’, a title that Judith never used, conveyed to Faulkner something awful. He was suddenly angry with her; maddened by her refusal to see how the world had changed, and infuriated by her apparent complicity in Henry’s outrageous deception, about which the King was so well-informed. He had almost forgotten the King’s letter but knew that he must first set it in the hand of Lord Craven.
    Leicester House, Lord Craven’s London residence, lay within the City of London, and Faulkner, anxious to have matters out with his wife, sped there without much thought about his mission. The house fronted the street, and his over-eager banging of its door-knocker quickly summoned a man-servant.
    â€˜I have a personal letter from His Majesty The King for Lord Craven,’ he explained.
    The man drew back and gestured for Faulkner to enter. Half expecting the servant to request he hand the letter over, he added, ‘I am to deliver it personally.’
    â€˜Of course.’ The man-servant inclined his head. ‘But His Lordship iss absent …’
    â€˜Absent?’ Faulkner was puzzled. ‘But I must see … somebody who …’ He got no further. The manservant was not obstructive, only protective of his master.
    â€˜Plees, may I haf your name?’
    â€˜Captain Sir Christopher Faulkner,’ he responded. The man-servant repeated the name and Faulkner nodded.
    â€˜
Danke
.’ The man’s accent was thick and, to Faulkner, sounded like that of a Dutchman. He gathered his wits, pushing all thoughts of Judith and Henry out of his mind for the time being. Of course! The servant was a Bohemian, and this, he recollected, looking about the paved hall in which he had been left to wait, was the residence of Queen Elizabeth of Bohemia, King Charles’s aunt. Another monarch dispossessed by war, she was also mother to Prince Rupert of the Rhine, who, he had heard, shared the residence with her.
    As the moments of idle waiting ticked by, he found his thoughts returning to his personal predicament. He would have to confront Judith immediately and locate Henry without delay. The only possible thing to be done was to have the boy put on board a ship by force, removing him from the Kingdom for a few months. He racked his brains to recall which of their ships would next sail for the West Indies, but found himself gripped by some mental paralysis, unable to recollect the detail. He tore off his right glove and rubbed his eyes.
    â€˜Damn, damn, damn,’ he muttered under his breath.
    And then, just when he felt his world had been capsized, it turned over yet again.
    â€˜Kit? Can it be you?’
    A rapidly approaching murmur of silk came with the waft of a scent that tore at his very sanity. He looked up at a woman standing before him and stepped back hard against the wall.
    â€˜Christ Jesus!’ he choked, unable to catch his breath after his blasphemy, for he was staring into the still lustrous eyes of Katherine Villiers.

Katherine Villiers
May 1661
    As a boy Faulkner had felt faint with hunger; he also knew