Trapped at the Altar by Jane Feather

to be a full and powerful organ merely at rest against his thigh. And then he tucked himself into his side of the bolster, blew out the night candle, and the chamber was lit only by the dying flicker of torchlight through the window.

SIX

    T he liveried manservant moved efficiently around the antechamber to the King’s privy chambers at the Palace of Whitehall. He adjusted cushions and straightened the rug before the fireplace in which, despite the warmth of the September morning, a massive log blazed. The Duchess of Portsmouth was always complaining of the cold, and when she was in residence with the King, every fireplace in the royal residence was kept alight.
    The man paused to mop his brow before sticking the poker into the fire to adjust the log. The mullioned casements were open onto the river, and the sounds of river traffic drifted from below, the shouts of oarsmen in their skiffs touting for customers to row across the mighty Thames, which was thronged with the barges of the rich and noble dwarfing the bobbing watercraft of humble tradesfolk and the even humbler river rats who plied their trade in the flotsam they hauled up from the riverbed and scavenged from its slimy banks at low tide. The strains ofmusic rose above the cacophony as an elegant barge sailed past, the musicians in the bow playing for their noble employer sprawled at his ease in the richly upholstered cabin.
    The footman went to the window to take a deep, cooling breath of fresh air, except that it wasn’t fresh. The air was putrid with the river stench. The carcass of a cow bobbed gently downstream as the tide took it towards Greenwich, a rat scurried through the thick mud at the river’s edge, and the royal barge, pennants flying, rode high on the water at the Whitehall Palace landing, having just disembarked its royal passenger and his friends after a morning’s hunt in the park at Hampton Court.
    Voices, booted feet, the bark of a dog, a woman’s laugh came from the corridor outside, and the footman jumped back into the antechamber, casting one last glance around before diving for a small door behind an ornate screen in the far corner. Only the loftiest of servants were permitted in his majesty’s presence, and he didn’t qualify. The door took him down long, narrow stone corridors winding through the vast backstage of the massive palace, the biggest in Europe, it was said. These were the corridors inhabited by the faceless multitude who kept the palace working, its royal inhabitants warm, fed, secure, and in total ignorance of the mechanics that ensured their comfort and safety.
    The double doors that opened into the antechamber from the richly decorated corridor beyond were flung wide by two flunkies, and the King, booted and spurred and in great good humor, swept into the chamber. A plump ladyin riding dress clung to his arm, a pack of deer hounds surged around the couple, and in their wake came a chattering pack of courtiers, all booted and spurred.
    â€œBy God, that was a goodly chase,” his majesty declared, flinging his plumed hat onto a low chair, following it with his whip and heavy gauntlets. His wig fell in luxuriant dark curls to his silk-clad shoulders. He bent to kiss the plump lady’s cheek as she smiled up at him. “You rode like an angel, my little Fubbs.” He seized her around her waist, lifting her for another kiss. “Ah, isn’t she magnificent, gentlemen?”
    A chorus of agreement met this statement, and the lady, Louise de Kéroualle, Duchess of Portsmouth, acknowledged it with a light laugh. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, you flatter me. And you know what they say about flatterers?” Her eyebrows rose as she graced the company with an arch smile. “Just because his majesty is pleased to compliment me is no reason for the rest of you to fawn.”
    â€œLouise, Louise, so harsh, my darling. Of course they find you perfection. And you must not blame them for