The King's Chameleon by Richard Woodman Page A

the weird and debilitating effects of the trauma of a wounding, followed by an effusion of blood. He knew, all too recently, how disarming shocking news could affect a man’s composure, but this, this whirl of emotion, of a choking sensation that made the heart trip and then hammer, that set his head in a spin, made his eyes water and his legs fail him: this was something altogether new and terrifying.
    He staggered back hard against the wall, feeling preposterous, foolish and yet over-come with shock at the encounter, guilt as the recollection of their parting and yet … and yet an overwhelming joy. ‘Kate,’ he breathed as his vision cleared and he held out a hand to her, fearful that he should receive a rebuff.
    â€˜Come,’ she said simply, taking his hand and drawing him quickly into a side room, the furnishings of which he could never afterwards recall. Still holding hands, they stood stock-still, close enough for each to feel the breath of the other. He could see that time had taken its toll: she was thin and pale, her skin bore the marks of time, but her features – devoid of paste or patches – were as lovely as ever, and he could tell by the heaving of her bosom that she too was in turmoil as they gazed into each other’s eyes, almost stupefied.
    â€˜I fear we are preposterous,’ she said at last, with a smile and an embarrassed little laugh.
    â€˜I do not care how we look, only that I can look at nothing else.’
    â€˜I am so pleased to see you,’ she responded. ‘Since I came back to London a week or so ago I have been tempted to seek you out but I could not.’
    He shook his head. ‘I did not know … How came you here?’
    â€˜In the train of Her Majesty; I am a lady in waiting to the Queen of Bohemia living in exile here, and I am as beholden to Lord Craven for my accommodation as is Her Majesty herself.’ He stood looking at her, unable to say anything, digesting the plain facts, and she, awkward herself, ploughed on. ‘His Lordship has been a steadfast friend and staunchly loyal servant of The Queen.’ She made a little gesture. ‘This is his house …’
    â€˜Yes, yes, I know,’ he said, gathering his wits. ‘That is why I am here, to see his Lordship.’
    â€˜How so?’ she asked, a puzzled look on her face.
    He stepped back and drew the King’s letter from his doublet. ‘I bear him a letter from the hand of the King.’
    â€˜Then …’ She frowned before continuing: ‘But the King knows Lord Craven is in Oxford in hope of turning up papers relating to—’
    â€˜Then why …?’
    It dawned on both of them simultaneously, breaking the artificial but necessary discourse that had thrust itself upon them in the wake of their mutual shocks. ‘He knew you were here,’ Faulkner said wonderingly.
    â€˜He knew that we parted …’
    â€˜Because of him?’
    â€˜Because of what you thought of him.’
    â€˜He cared that much?’
    â€˜You were an outstanding sea-officer. In his opinion you stood second only to his cousin.’
    â€˜Prince Rupert of the Rhine?’ asked Faulkner, astonished, only half-believing Katherine’s explanation.
    She nodded. ‘Few carried the King’s fight to the enemy’s doorstep. I heard him say so in those very words.’
    â€˜Well.’ Faulkner shook his head and looked down. She anticipated him speaking and held her silence, though she took up his hand again and held it to her breast. ‘I, er … I acted infamously then … both to you and to the King.’ He rallied, threw up his head and stared at her. ‘But he had proved himself a rake, and I was jealous!’
    She put her left hand up and smoothed his cheek. Shaking her head, she said with tears welling in her eyes, ‘You were not to blame. The times and our situation was such that …’ She paused.