Free Winsor, Kathleen by Forever Amber Page A

fruitless efforts to
regain his kingdom which had occupied him incessantly for over ten years. Above
all it was the end of humiliation and scorn, of being ridiculed and slighted by
men who were his inferiors in rank and in everything else. It was at long last
the end of being a man without a country and a king without a crown.
    The
day was clear and bright, brilliantly sunlit, perfectly cloudless, and people
told one another that the weather was a good omen. From London Bridge to
Whitehall, along his line of march, every street and balcony and window and
rooftop was packed. And though the procession was not expected until after
noon, by eight in the morning there was not a foot of space to be found.
Trainbands to the number of 12,000 men lined the streets—they had fought against
Charles I but were now detailed to keep the crowds in order for his son's
return.
    The
signs were draped with May flowers; great arches of hawthorn spanned every
street; and green oak boughs had been nailed over the fronts of many buildings.
Garlands looped from window to window were decorated with ribbons and silver
spoons, brightly polished, gleaming in the sun. From the homes of the
well-to-do floated tapestries and gold and scarlet and green banners—flags
whipped out gallantly on even the humblest rooftop. The fountains ran with wine
and bells pealed incessantly from every church steeple in the city. At last the
deep ponderous booming of cannon announced that the procession had reached
London Bridge.
    It
began to wind slowly through the narrow streets, the horses' hoofs clopping
rhythmically on the pavement, trumpets and clarinets shrilling, kettledrums
rolling with a sound as of thunder echoing across the hills. The whole
procession glittered and sparkled—fabulously, almost unbelievably splendid. It
passed in a stream that seemed to have no end: troops of men in
scarlet-and-silver cloaks, black velvet and gold, silver and green, with swords
flashing, banners flying, the horses prancing and snorting, lifting their hoofs
daintily and with pride. Hour after hour it went on until the eyes of the
onlookers grew dazzled and began to ache, their throats were raw from shouting,
and their ears roared with the incessant clamour.
    The
hundreds of loyal Cavaliers, men who had fought for the first Charles, who had
sold their goods and their lands to help him and who had followed his son
abroad, rode almost at the end. They were, without exception, handsomely
dressed and mounted—though all this finery had been got on credit. After them
came the Lord Mayor, carrying his naked sword of office. On one side of him was
General Monk, a short stout ugly little man, who nevertheless sat his horse
with dignity and commanded respect from soldiers and civilians alike. Next to
the King he was perhaps the most popular man in England that day. And on the
Lord Mayor's other side rode George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham.
    The
Duke, a big, handsome, flagrantly virile man, with hair blond as a god's,
smiled and nodded to the women in the balconies who flung him kisses and tossed
flowers in his path. His rank was second only to that of the princes of the
blood, and his private fortune was the greatest in England. For he had
contrived to marry the daughter of the Parliamentarian general to whom his vast
lands had been given, and so had saved himself. Many knew that for his numerous
treacheries he was in disfavor amounting almost to disgrace, but the Duke looked as well
pleased with himself as though he had personally engineered the Restoration.
    Following
them came several pages, many trumpeters whose banners bore the royal
coat-of-arms, and drummers shining with sweat as they beat out a mighty roar.
At their heels rode Charles II, hereditary King of England, Ireland, and
France, Monarch of Great Britain, Defender of the Faith. A frenzy of adoration,
hysterical and almost religious, swept through the people as he passed, and
surged along before him. They fell to