to love—and to be betrayed.’
‘Love,’ sang Kit to the music he was playing. ‘And what the devil’s that? You enjoyed yourself and so did I. Isn’t that enough? Must you have more? Seize the day, as the Ancients said, and, by God, we have just seized it together. As for the money, it’s yours; you’ve earned it.’ And he rose and stuffed the guineas into her hand.
As rapidly as he had bestowed them on her, she raised her hand and threw the guineas at him. They rolled and clattered beyond him upon the polished floor. She turned on her heel and prepared to run from the room.
Kit was not a whit abashed. He raised his guitar to salute her and said over the top of it. ‘My pretty dear, I have a song for you. Only stay, and you shall hear it.’
‘A song!’ cried Buckingham, no mean performer on the guitar himself and, like most of King Charles’s court, given to writing poetry—and even, on occasion, a play. ‘A new one, Kit? Say it is a new song. I am weary of the old. We lack invention these days.’
‘New, quite new. But the theme is old—all the best themes are old.’ And he began to sing in his pleasant baritone. Even Dorothy Lowther stayed to hear, caught by the melancholy beauty of both the music and the words. Kit was so intent on his performance that room, courtiers and maids of honour alike vanished. He was alone with his creation; the harsh realities of life had disappeared. For a brief moment he was a boy again, joying in his newly found power to create, the world lying all before him…
In the middle of his song the King himself, drawn by the sound of music, came into the room followed by yet more courtiers. He placed his finger on his lips, mutely asking Kit’s audience not to acknowledge him so that the music should not be disturbed.
Yes, it was a new song and yes, the theme was old, but, for a moment, it held King and courtiers in its spell.
Love is joy, love is fleeting,
And parting is as sure as meeting.
’Tis the burden of my song,
That love, alas, is never long.
So enjoy it while we may;
Tomorrow is another day—
If love should last until the dawn,
By dusk its farewell we shall mourn.
Seize then the hour before it passes,
For sure there will be other lasses.
Time and chance may change my song,
But love, alas, will ne’er be long.
The last haunting notes hung in the air. There was something so plaintive, so sad, about both the song and the singer that for a moment no one spoke, and then the King, striking his hands together, came forward to greet Kit, his courtiers parting before him.
Charles was not a particularly regal figure, but then he never had been. Informality reigned at Whitehall in 1665 as it had done ever since Charles had come home from his travels in 1660. He was wearing a crimson velvet coat, laced with gold, and a vast lace cravat; his petticoat breeches—wide culottes falling to his knees—were black, his shirt loose over the top of them. His stockings were of scarlet silk with gold clocks and his black leather shoes had red heels. His wig was long, curling and black, and added another couple of inches to his height of over six feet. He towered over every man in the room.
‘Well sung, Kit. No, do not stand, man. The song is your own?’
‘Yes, sire.’ Kit obeyed his monarch and remained where he was.
‘Passing fine, Kit, passing fine. I missed the first verse. You will sing it again?’
It was formed as a question, but was really a command. Kit nodded and once again the strains of the song filled the air. One or two, including George Buckingham, began to hum along with it by the end.
‘I am not sure, Kit—’ Charles was judicious ‘—whether I prefer the music or the words. Both are rare. You will let me have a copy of both, will you not? I would like to hear Castlemaine sing it.’
Few dared to laugh at this somewhat double-edged statement. Charles II was free and easy with his court, but whether he would have appreciated any comment on his mistress, Barbara Palmer, Lady Castlemaine, singing a song about fleeting love—her own hold on the King being the opposite of that—was quite another matter.
Kit looked up at his master, his friend since they had fought side by side at Worcester field in 1651 and had fled that doomed battlefield together—Kit barely seventeen years old and Charles already a man of twenty-one, cynical beyond his years.
He rose and bowed. He was not much shorter than the King in height and, like the King, was well-built and athletic—Charles sometimes teased him with his nickname ‘Shoulders’, and frequently demanded that he play opposite to him at tennis.
‘Certainly, sire. As always, your wish is my command.’ And he gave yet another bow—as perfunctory as the first had been. The King’s eyebrows climbed. Kit’s words might sound obedient, almost servile, but there was nothing of either in his manner. He was neither as rebellious nor as insolent as the young Lord Rochester already was, occasionally being condemned by the King to short periods in the Tower for his lèse majesté, but he was always his own man—as Dorothy Lowther had found.
‘You were not formed to be a courtier, Kit. Natheless, lend me your shoulder for a moment.’ He flung his arm around Kit, leaning on him, and began to walk him to the tall glass doors which led on to one of Whitehall’s many lawns.
The palace by the river was a rabbit warren. It had been built over the reigns of many different monarchs and it was Kit’s joke that, like Theseus pursuing the Minotaur in the labyrinth, one needed a thread unwinding behind one to find a safe way in and out of it.
Behind them both streamed not only the courtiers but also Charles’s small spaniels, yapping their pleasure as they ran into the open. The King made for one of the many seats scattered about the grounds. He released his human prop, saying, ‘Another song, Kit, and then you may retire—to please yourself, perhaps,’ and his black eyes shone, leaving Kit in no doubt that his monarch knew perfectly well of Kit’s dalliance and neither approved nor disapproved of it.
Kit had carried his guitar in his left hand as he walked along and, standing, he lifted a foot on to the bench before beginning to sing Herrick’s poem ‘Delight in Disorder’. He had set it to his own music the other evening and his eyes rested on Dorothy Lowther as he sang it. She had followed him and the King into the gardens almost unwillingly, and blushed a little at the opening words of the song:
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness…
which he sang to her in defiance of her displeasure.
Once more King and Court applauded him. The King raised his hands and said, ‘Go, Kit. Let your time be your own. I shall call on you again soon.’
Kit, now released, bowed gracefully this time—he was supple and elegant in all his movements despite his size—and walked slowly away from the King, his guitar by his side. He had hardly reached the paved walk which ran alongside the lawn, some of the little dogs following him, before George Buckingham
