Free The King's Chameleon by Richard Woodman

with his grey gloves in his left hand, his sword-stick in the right, looking every inch the successful merchant. He recalled a visit to the Court of the first Charles that he had made years earlier in the company of Sir Henry Mainwaring and looked about him curiously as he was conducted towards the throne room. He cast the recollection of the past aside, for that too contained the memory of Katherine Villiers.
    A moment later he was caught up in the bustle as others, keener than he to enjoy the privilege of proximity to the royal personage, hurried forward to secure their place at the assembly. Idly, Faulkner wondered how many had earlier favoured the contrary party and formerly displayed soberer apparel? Did a country need a king to answer some deep-seated desire for general cohesion? He concluded that he rather inclined to the belief that it did.
    â€˜Sir? Your stick, sir. I apprehend it contains a sword-blade.’
    â€˜What? Oh, of course.’ He surrendered the weapon. Clearly, the King was nervous of his subjects. One of the Lord Chamberlain’s flunkies took his stick, but he retained his hat and gloves and caught sight of Albemarle waiting for him. ‘Good morrow, Your Grace, I have kept you waiting again.’
    â€˜Sir Kit, good morrow. It is not to be wondered at; this is like Billingsgate. Come.’
    It was unnecessary to force their way through the throng. After the King himself, the imposing figure of Albemarle was the best known in the three kingdoms, whether one knew of him as Monck, ‘Honest George’ or as Duke of Albemarle. It was said that Honest George was free to enter the King’s presence at any time, and to remain there until the King himself specifically asked him to retire.
    Having worked his way to the front of the noisy throng, Albemarle took his station, indicating Faulkner should stand on his right. Faulkner had little time to stare about him, though he recognized the hall and knew by which entrance the King would emerge. He felt an attack of nerves, apprehensive at the reception he would receive at the royal hands. Looking sideways he judged there were perhaps two people to whom the King might speak before he came to Albemarle, such was Honest George’s standing. Faulkner thought he recognized Clarendon among them, but the other was unfamiliar to him. Then a functionary banged a staff three times on the floor, the babble fell away and a voice cried out: ‘His Majesty the King!’
    With a scrape of shoes, a sweeping of arms and a susurration of silk skirts, the entire assembly bowed or curtseyed. Those gentlemen, like Albemarle and Faulkner in the front of the crowd, thrust forward their right feet and drew back their left hands, their hat brims gathering the dust of the floor.
    As he straightened up, it seemed the King stood before him. ‘My Lord Duke,’ the King said, smiling and taking Albemarle’s hand. Set in the King’s strong features, dark eyes – at which Faulkner hardly dare to look – regarded him keenly as Albemarle made a gesture of presentation with his right hand. ‘You Majesty may I have the honour—’
    But he got no further, for the King held out his hand. ‘Ho! But it is Sir Kit, is it not?’
    â€˜Your Majesty,’ Faulkner murmured, hardly daring to take the King’s finger-tips and bow his head over the perfumed glove of soft leather that concealed them. He remarked the large ring the King wore.
    â€˜You taught me to con a vessel, sir, for which I am indebted.’
    â€˜Your Majesty is most kind …’ He was about to relinquish the royal hand but the King maintained a strong grip.
    â€˜I would speak privately with you, Sir Kit,’ he murmured and, turning to Albemarle, said in a low voice, ‘see to it, Duke.’
    A moment later the king was gone; he could be heard discussing the racing at Newmarket with a couple ornately dressed in silks and covered in jewels that