Lady on the Coin

by Margaret Campbell Barnes

  The Queen cast a smiling and indulgent glance at her. How far the beautiful, silly creature was from suspecting! The smile veered to the Duchess of Buckingham, whose gaze was worshipping.

  “I will see more of that girl in the future,” Catherine decided.

  Under cover of the general conversation Charles spoke low in his wife’s ear.

  “But, my sweet life, how can you be sure that the performance of this puppeteer will be of sufficient polish for a critical assembly? There has been no time for you to judge it.”

  “I have seen enough,” said Catherine, thinking not so much of the puppet-master as of Buckingham’s sullen face, and of his eyes, which rarely met hers, but which when they did were dark with hatred.

  The supper proceeded and Catherine’s gay mood was a surprise to them all. She set them laughing with some of her odd turns of phrase. Buckingham wondered if she could have suspected what was afoot, but it seemed impossible. His skilfully laid plan was to be foiled through a whim!

  Meanwhile the puppet-master had been setting up a portable stage in the adjoining room, and the guests, having supped, took their places in chairs arranged in a semicircle. There were green-velvet curtains concealing the stage.

  “Now do your best, magician, for yourself as well as for me,” Catherine silently adjured him.

  Designedly the curtains were but few, but when the stage curtains were drawn aside, there was a bright light on the little stage which showed a diminutive but perfect park with trees and shrubs and grass lawns, borders of flowers and a lake. In the foreground fashionably dressed puppets of both sexes were enjoying an alfresco meal. There was a swing in which a girl puppet was dreamily pushing herself to and fro; there were little figures in boats on the lake. The wires by which all these figures were manipulated were practically invisible. And suddenly there was music, the soft, tripping music of a violin, and the puppets moved aside to make way for a handsome courtier attired in blue and white satin and a curled wig. He sat down beside the girl in the swing and put one arm around her as he stooped his head to kiss her lips, her throat, her swelling bosom. The girl puppet went through the motions of half swooning with pleasure.

  The audience murmured approval, and applauded as the curtains closed, to part again with surprisingly short delay on a skating scene. The little figures glided on the frozen lake, weaving in an intricate dance. The puppets, who had been lovers in the previous scene, whirled together in abandon.

  The swiftness, lightness and lifelikeness of the little figures as they mimed one part after another were extraordinary. After the first exclamations of delight and surprise, a silence fell upon the audience. None who watched could tear their eyes from the brilliantly lighted stage upon which these realistic dolls disported themselves.

  The final scene was a ballet in which the two leading puppets played the parts of Venus and Adonis.

  “’Tis almost impossible to believe that they have not the breath of life in them,” cried Frances when at last the green-velvet curtains closed to be drawn aside no more.

  A few minutes later the puppet-master was bowing low before the King and Queen, with several of his actors and actresses hanging limply over one arm.

  “A magician in truth,” Catherine murmured.

  Although impressed, she was not certain that it had been in a pleasant way, for the realistic love-making had been unashamedly sensual. But Charles was delighted, and the puppets were handed round from one to another and their clever workmanship was admired.

  Frances held the leading-lady puppet in her hands and felt something of the Queen’s mingled fascination and repulsion. So limp and helpless now, yet during the entertainment so vital and eager. It was uncanny, thought Frances, as she handed the puppet to Buckingham who stood near her. He, who appeared to have recovered his good spirits, made an attempt to manipulate the little figure, jerking at the wires which controlled its arms and legs, but the result was a grotesque acrobatic collapse with fair plaits falling across and hiding the painted face.

  The watching puppet-master smiled sardonically and took the puppet to place it with the others. The King complimented him and a purse filled with gold pieces was given to him. The King also took a gold chain from his neck and hung it around the Welshman’s neck. There was eagerness on the part of several of the ladies present to engage the puppet-master to give performances at their own homes in the near future, but Frances, who had fallen silent and was watching the man closely, was not surprised that he returned evasive answers. There was something strange about him and she was even more strongly conscious of it when the next day it was discovered that he had disappeared.

  “He has gone back to his Welsh hills,” the Queen said when she heard. “The money the King gave him enabled him to do that.”

  For her the puppet-master had served his purpose and possibly she was right. He was never heard of again. Frances had the odd conviction that the audience had seen what the Welshman wanted them to see. The show had perhaps been quite ordinary, but he by some magic power had made them all dream his dream.

  It was not long before she was hearing rumours from various sources of the “entertainment” which would have been given that evening, but for the arrival of the Queen, and she was not the only one to be at first incredulous and then furious. Barbara Castlemaine was equally so. Buckingham had been prepared to dupe her and she did not believe that the King had been ignorant of it. Frances was shattered as the abortive plot was pieced together. Had the Queen known what was planned? She dared not question her.

  Nobody suspected that the Duchess of Buckingham had betrayed her husband to the Queen. It was said that he had taken too many into his confidence and that one or more of them had babbled.

  With the King, Barbara staged a scene of herculean proportions. She could reveal now that she was pregnant and flung the information at him, by her manner daring him to utter a doubt as to the child’s parentage. And to think that in such a state he would have duped her! To think that he would have allowed her to be drugged and thus have turned a harmless frolic into an orgy.

  In vain, the King protested his complete ignorance of the plot designed to bring Frances to his arms. He was at a disadvantage, for Barbara was looking extremely ill and declared that she was unlikely to survive this birth. If she died, the King, who owed her his tenderest care, would be her murderer.

  Barbara refused to see or speak to Buckingham and once more departed to Richmond, on this occasion fortified by the King’s tacit agreement that he was responsible for her pregnancy and the promise that he would ere long give her a palace worthy of her illustrious position. It was to be several months before she again showed herself at Court.

  Frances, meanwhile, received messages from Buckingham beseeching her to give him the chance of self-vindication. Finally she agreed to a meeting, but before he had spoken more than a sentence her hand shot out, and with her clenched right fist she hit him across the mouth.

  “I was warned of you as a traitor,” she cried, “and it was a true warning.” And then, as Buckingham started to bluster, she added with venom: “Were I in power — were the King my lover — I would never rest until I had destroyed you.”

  Buckingham, tenderly fingering a bruised jaw, recovered himself sufficiently to retort: “For myself all has turned out well. The King would have given me no thanks had I put a violent mad woman into his arms.”

  Charles met with a better reception. For a few days he watched Frances narrowly, observing her clouded face and the listlessness with which she moved and spoke. Between Catherine and himself there had been no explanation. She thought it politic to ask for none, he was thankful to be spared, but within a short while Frances’ attitude had become unbearable to him. He could not endure to see her with her radiance dimmed, her eyes averted from his, her gaiety and comradeship withdrawn from him.

  “It was none of my doing,” Charles said, when he at last contrived to get her alone, in the Queen’s private sitting-room, vacant becaus
e she had gone for a drive with the Countess of Suffolk. Frances was silent, held first by his hand on hers, and then encircled by his arm.

  “Did you know nothing?” she asked at last.

  “Nothing. God’s truth! Am I not man enough to do my own wooing without calling upon George Villiers for aid?”

  “Why should he have thought that you — that I…?”

  “I doubt if the fool ever thinks clearly. He has a twisted mind that revels in subtleties, and a sense of humour as perverted as that of the little monster whom my poor Minette has married.”

  “I never could understand why she agreed to take Philippe,” said Frances, her thoughts momentarily diverted from herself. “Nobody could have forced her.”

  “She forced herself — for my sake,” Charles said sombrely. “The marriage was a valuable link with France. A pity, though, that Louis did not fall in love with her before marriage instead of after. At least he is a man.”

  “It wasn’t worth it, just for politics,” Frances said. “You would have worked things out without such a sacrifice.”

  “As likely as not — but nearly all royal marriages are arranged either for political or financial reasons. Even mine.”

  “You are fond of the Queen,” Frances said.

  “Fond, yes! But there’s a difference between that and…” Suddenly he seized her, held her in the hard, strong arms that in their day had performed many a strenuous task, and could still break-in a mettlesome horse, let alone a delicate, slender girl. He kissed her, fondled her, finally shook her. “For pity’s sake don’t look at me with those accusing eyes, you little fraud. You must have known.”

  “That Your Majesty has a tendresse for me? But that is not an unusual thing — for you,” Frances retorted in a voice that contrived to be both prim and impertinent.

  His embrace had stirred her no more than the rough hug of a schoolboy, but he must not be allowed to suspect it. She trembled a little and cast down her eyes and murmured: “That was an ill thing to do! How can you expect me to be…to even think of it after such a squalid plot?”

  “Have I said I expect anything…at the moment?”

  “No, but you are the King, and evidently Buckingham thought I should consider it an honour to be given to you.”

  “Forget Buckingham. I have seen him. He knows my opinion of this latest devilry, and by my command he has left London. A few months of rustication may drive sense into his head. Until it has he won’t be seen at Court.”

  “Then, since I should have had no other opportunity, I am glad I attacked him at once. I even think I loosened one of his front teeth — with this,” and Frances clenched her right hand and brandished it. Irrepressibly she giggled. Irrepressibly Charles laughed.

  “I doubt,” he said, “if any other woman would have dared, but it was no more than the rogue deserved. Oh, my sweeting, I would I were ten years younger that you might look more kindly on me, with a more tender heart.”

  “My heart is tender,” Frances protested, “as tender as it dare be. But there are too many obstacles.”

  “Love can demolish them. Tell me what you most want in life, for whatever it is I vow it shall be yours.” And then, as she shook her head, smiling more pensively than was her wont: “I love you, Frances. I adore you. Were it in my power I would marry you. It is not, but anything else…”

  “Would you have forced me had Buckingham’s plot gone according to plan?” Frances asked with curiosity.

  “On my honour, I would not, nor ever have with any woman.”

  Irrelevantly, Frances said: “When I looked at that puppet doll, limp in my hand — so helpless — it gave me a…a frisson. Afterwards when I heard the plot, it seemed as though it could have been me.”

  “Nonsense!” declared Charles robustly. “If you had not wanted me, you would have put up a fight, and I should have left you alone.”

  “But in the surprise I — I might not have fought,” and Frances looked up at him from beneath the veil of her long lashes. Flirting was easy, to beguile a man was easy — pleasant too. She was not afraid of him, and now that he was but gently caressing her she had no objection.

  “Tell me what I can do to please you?” Charles urged.

  “Nothing, Sire, except to be patient, kind, considerate, as I am sure you always will be.” She murmured the words guilefully, beginning to realize how she could keep him at bay though still hot with longing for her.

  “But there must be something you want,” he persisted. “Jewels — you shall have those which will put Barbara’s to shame. Gowns, they can be sent from France by the cartload. An establishment of which you can be proud and titles so that you take precedence of all others save the Queen.”

  “How could I betray the Queen who has been so good to me?” asked Frances reproachfully.

  “I doubt not she would prefer you to Barbara Castlemaine,” the King said callously. “You would not so goad her or triumph over her.”

  “Never — but it would hurt her, Charles.” Frances’ one idea now was to play for time, to keep him hoping, believing and more or less quiescent. She twined her slender white fingers in his strong brown ones and twisted around the one ring he wore, a splendid emerald.

  The King made as though he would take it off. “It will be far too large for you, but it can be altered to fit,” he said.

  Frances shook her head and moved slightly away from him. “Oh no, I want nothing,” she protested.

  “God’s truth! Then you are different from any other woman.”

  “Your Majesty is unfortunate if you have known only harpies.”

  “Tell me the truth,” he demanded. “Have you any love for me?”

  “But of course. Who does not love the King? But I would not supplant Barbara Castlemaine — my friend.”

  “Barbara can be compensated.”

  “Can a woman be compensated for humiliation? Besides, I have heard that the reason she has left for Richmond is because she is ill and expecting another child. She has looked ill of late, and for what might have happened at her party she would not have been to blame. Oh, Charles, you cannot expect me to come to a decision about…us, until she is well again. If she heard of it, and she would be sure to hear, it might go badly with her. And besides — until the babe is born — oh, can’t you understand that I feel as though you belong to each other, and if I — if we — I could not share a lover.”

  “Well, no — perhaps not.” Charles made the admission grudgingly, smothering a groan and regardless that his unfortunate Queen had been required to do so. But then, though he had been vastly relieved on Catherine’s arrival from Portugal to find her so winsome, he had never been in love with her as he was now in love with this beautiful, maddening girl.

  Frances was moving her fingers in his, and had he but known it counting on them the months that must pass before Barbara’s delivery. She could not be more than three months on the way, therefore Frances could count on a respite of seven. Charles could not tell Barbara that her day was over until at least a month after the birth of her child. “Pray heaven she doesn’t miscarry and recover the sooner,” was Frances’ unuttered thought.

  “You were happy at Hampton Court,” Charles said suddenly. “I remember last summer when you first arrived from France. You loved the old place. Say the word, give me your promise, and I will make it over to you. Wolsey’s old home shall be yours.”

  “Oh no!” Staggered by such a stupendous suggestion, she was yet touched. She did not in the least want to own that historic dwelling which belonged to the nation more than to any one being. She wanted a home she could change and improve according to her dreams, and thus thinking she remembered Charles Lennox and Cobham Hall, and was suddenly conscious of self-disgust.

  She rose and twirled away from the King, laughing at him as she retreated down the narrow pathway of a long, slanting sun-ray.

  “I cannot be bribed,” she cried. “What I give, I give for love. Is not that how you would have it be?”

>   The King watched her fascinated and bemused. He thought he had never seen anything more alluring than that laughing girl with her bright curls and her sea-blue eyes and her lissom body.

  “Yes, that is how I would have it be,” he agreed.

  Fourteen

  Tunbridge and Bath were both visited that summer, and amongst the galaxy of charm and beauty Frances shone as a star. By this time not a soul who moved in the Court circle was blind to the King’s infatuation, and many supposed she was already his mistress. Not so Catherine, who accepted the situation with tolerance. She had come to believe that the King’s love affairs were mainly ephemeral and that Barbara Castlemaine was the one woman who could hold him permanently. Having resigned herself to this, she was thankful that Barbara was not flaunting her new pregnancy beneath her eyes, and she judged Frances to be harmless and sincerely devoted to herself.

  She might have been more alarmed had she guessed that Charles now cared nothing for Barbara and had strong doubts that her expected infant was his.

  When Frances contemplated the future, which was as seldom as might be, she was apprehensive. She had promised the King or had half-promised him that which she had no intention of surrendering, and much of her present importance was due to his confidence in her. Everyone flattered her, everyone sought her out. She was constantly told that she was the most beautiful of living beings, and as the King was naturally generous he was delighted to see her so happy. There were times when he became urgent and demanding, but so far Frances had not found it too difficult to hold her own.

  She discovered several ways of placating him, and it was easy to touch his heart. She would remind him of her austere childhood, of her poverty and frustration, and then he would think himself a brute to grudge her her butterfly thoughtlessness. Usually she was so effortlessly gay it was a pleasure to Charles to be with her, and in his moodier moments she would coax him to talk of the long, adventurous years of exile when he had not dared to believe he would regain the throne. Very occasionally, when his restraint threatened to break down, she would become serious and vow that his passion frightened her, and that she sometimes thought it might be a good thing if she gave up the world and entered a convent.