“I promise, Sir.” Roxhythe stretched out his hand to the bell at his side. Charles rang it for him.
As if by magic, Christopher appeared.
“Chris, you will escort His Majesty downstairs.”
“Ah, Mr. Dart!” The King was pleased to be gracious. “I fear you have a difficult patient.”
Christopher smiled, bowing.
“No, Sir. My lord is quite tractable.”
“I have never found him so,” said Charles. “I charge you very straitly to have a care for him.” He flung a glance at Roxhythe, brimful of mischief. “ ’Twas a grievous accident!”
“Yes, Sir,” said Christopher grimly.
The King bent over Roxhythe again.
“Fare ye well, Davy. I shall come again within a day or two.”
Roxhythe kissed his hand.
“I can find no words wherewith to thank you, Sir. You are very good.”
Christopher accompanied the King downstairs, nearly bursting with pride.
“Is the surgeon satisfied with him?” asked Charles, his hand on the baluster.
“Yes, Sir. But he urges complete rest. My lord must not move this week.”
“See to it that he does not, Mr. Dart. He is very dear to me.”
“He is very dear to me, Sir.”
Charles looked at him kindly.
“That is very well. You have been with him some time, I think?”
“Yes, Sir. Close on eight years.”
“He has been with me for thirty. There is not his equal on this earth.”
Christopher blushed in anticipation of what he was going to say.
“Except Your Majesty, Sir.”
Charles laughed.
“Very good, Mr. Dart!”
As they crossed the hall, he spoke again.
“I think you were his would-be champion some time ago?”
Christopher met his quizzical glance and flushed to the ears.
“Why, Sir, I—he would not have it so—but—”
“I was much entertained to hear of it. I commend your action, Mr. Dart.” His two equerries joined him. He extended his hand to Christopher, who went on one knee to kiss it. In that moment he would have laid down his life for the King.
VII
The Hand of Fate
The wound was slow in healing, and Roxhythe grew impatient. Then, unexpectedly, came the King. As before, he was ushered into the sick room, but this time he barely waited for Roxhythe to speak before he broke out.
“David, the devil is in it this time, and no mistake!”
Roxhythe supported himself on his elbow, wincing at the pain the movement gave him.
“What’s amiss, Sir?”
“Dimcock is down with the fever!” Charles could still laugh, albeit a trifle ruefully.
“The hand of fate,” said Roxhythe.
“It would appear so. Yet am I determined that this letter shall go.”
“Who will you send to take it?”
“Plague seize it, I do not know! I trust no one. So I came to you.”
“Give me three days, Sir! I’ll do it.”
“No, that was not my meaning. You will stay where you are. I thought mayhap you know of a trustworthy man?”
“Not I, Sir, alack! Oh, devil take Crewe and his works! That I should fail you when you most need me!”
Charles forced him back on to his pillows.
“Gently, Roxhythe! Is there no one whom you can call upon?”
“No one.”
Charles threw himself into a chair.
“The luck is against me. I had thought of Louise, but we are at variance for the moment on account of poor Nelly. Oddsfish, but Louise can be very spiteful when she likes! I’ll not approach her.”
“Sire, take it as an omen! The Fates are against it. Negotiate through Barillon.”
Charles was superstitious by nature, but the appeal failed.
“Damme, no! I am determined. Think, David! Is there no one?”
“Justin?”
“I believe him to be in Shaftesbury’s pay.”
“Cherrywood?”
“I would send him but that he is in Flanders with Monmouth.”
“Then there is no one. Buckingham would have done it, but you have cast him off.”
“I’d not trust him. Think again, David!”
There was a long silence. Roxhythe lay staring before him, his brain working swiftly. Charles, watching him anxiously, saw his lips tighten suddenly, and his brows draw together. He seemed to be considering.
“Roxhythe, do not fail me in this!” besought the King.
Roxhythe looked at him wistfully. He sighed.
“I will not fail you, Sir. I know of a man.”
“Ah! His name?”
“Dart.”
“Your secretary? I’d not thought of that. But will he do it?”
“Yes,” said Roxhythe. “He will do it for my sake.”
“And he may be trusted?”
“Implicitly.”
“Why, David, it could not be better!”
“There is a drawback.”
“Always the pessimist!”
“Perhaps. Christopher will serve you very well provided that he does not know what it is that he does.”
“Oho!” Charles pursed his lips. “Sits the wind in that quarter?”
“Christopher believes you to be impeccable. He has no notion of French intrigue. He trusts me wholly.”
“He would not trust either of us did we send him to Paris,” said Charles gloomily.
“We shall not send him to Paris.”
“Roxhythe, let me have no riddles! What is it that you propose?”
“Send him with your letter to Flanders, with another writ by you to Cherrywood. You can rely on him?”
“Ay.”
“He will deliver the packet to Cherrywood, who will journey with it to Paris. Chris need do no more. It’s very simple.”
“It is well thought out,” admitted Charles. “But what will you tell Dart? There must be no shadow of suspicion.”
“I will say that the packet contains private orders for Monmouth. You need have no fear.”
“If they are orders for Monmouth he will wonder why he is to take them to Cherrywood,” objected Charles.
“No. I shall tell him that they are to be delivered into his hands and not the Duke’s on account of the French spies that do watch Monmouth very closely.”
“ ’Tis very intricate, David. Are you sure that you can vouch for Dart?”
“I am sure.”
“I would Dimcock were not ill,” sighed the King. “I mislike this scheme.”
“Can you think of another, Sir?”
“No. It must suffice. You’ll pave the way with Dart?”
“Yes, Sir. When do you want him to start?”
“The letter is not yet writ. Can you spare Dart by Wednesday?”
“Sooner.”
“Wednesday is soon enough. I’ll bring both letters then.”
For a long time after the King had departed, Roxhythe lay still.
When he had engaged Christopher eight years ago, it had been because he thought that the boy might prove useful in just such an affair as this. Gradually
