Free The King's Chameleon by Richard Woodman Page A

stood alongside them.
    â€˜What am I to make of this summons, your Grace?’ Faulkner asked Albemarle as they emerged into the rough bustle of Whitehall.
    â€˜I have asked that you serve again in the Navy, Sir Christopher. I imagine His Majesty wishes to commission you directly.’ Albemarle paused as Faulkner digested this news, his imagination filling with a myriad of pros and cons. Then Albemarle added, ‘He is like to want to test your loyalty for himself. These are still early days for him … you understand?’
    â€˜Of course.’ He paused. ‘Your Grace, may I ask a favour? May we name our new ship in your honour?’
    Honest George chuckled. ‘Of course,’ he said, his eyes twinkling. ‘But I have had enough of titles. On the other hand, if it were to be my wife after whom the ship was to be named, it would please me greatly.’
    Faulkner smiled and bowed. ‘Then the “Duchess of Albemarle” she shall be, Your Grace.’
    Faulkner did not have to wait long. The following day an elegantly clad gentleman arrived at his house at Wapping, commanding him to attend the King the next morning. On his arrival at Whitehall Palace he was immediately conducted by way of several passages into the King’s private chambers. Left to kick his heels in an ante-room for half an hour, he was summoned into the royal presence about noon.
    The King sat at a table covered with papers. Beside him, to his left, was the man Faulkner had recognized two days previously as Clarendon. The two were conversing over a document and without looking up the King motioned Faulkner to come closer. He stopped a few feet from the table and made a deep bow, keeping his eyes lowered as he came upright. The dull drone of the conference between the King and Clarendon, his Chief Minister and leader of the Privy Council, ceased, and the King sat back, regarding the downcast Faulkner.
    â€˜Well, Sir Christopher, we meet again.’
    â€˜Your Majesty,’ Faulkner responded.
    â€˜I have summoned you, Sir Kit, not because of any past love I may have had for your person, notwithstanding your past services, for you were among those who deserted me …’ Faulkner made no move, though he felt the colour mounting into his face. The King’s pause was pregnant with foreboding, an earnest of his power, and yet Faulkner could not escape the notion that he was being toyed with, as if the King’s silence was a lure for him to speak. ‘You have nothing to say?’
    â€˜No, Your Majesty.’
    â€˜Nothing at all?’
    â€˜Nothing beyond expressing my desire to serve Your Majesty.’
    â€˜Is that all?’
    â€˜What would Your Majesty have me say, beyond pledging my allegiance? These have been difficult times, Sire.’
    â€˜You served the so-called Protector.’
    â€˜I conceived that I served my country, Your Majesty. The Protector had me mewed up in The Tower.’
    â€˜Look at me, Captain Faulkner,’ the King commanded.
    Faulkner raised his eyes and met the King’s gaze. Anyone as unlike his father would have been hard to conceive. Where his small-statured parent was haughty, yet halting, a stammerer whose insistence on his divine right to rule his realm without the benefit of a Parliament had sat oddly with his diffidence, the son had a solid, worldly air. Charles’s eyes were not only dark, but they were penetrating. His features were strong and his body was that of a powerful man.
    â€˜You are an honest fellow, I think,’ the King said with a certain heartiness after appraising Faulkner for a moment or two. ‘And honourable – perhaps too honourable for your own good.’
    Faulkner frowned at the ambiguity, but held his tongue. Was the King referring to …? But no, that was impossible. Charles might condescend a little; but not to the extent that Faulkner perhaps hoped for. He drove the thought from his mind. This was no time