A Health Unto His Majesty

by Виктория Холт

  Revolution was again in the air. Much money had been raised for the conduct of the war; why then had it come to such a shameful end?

  Someone was wrong. Someone must be blamed. And it was the custom to look to the most unpopular man in the kingdom on whom to fix blame.

  Mobs pulled up the trees in front of Clarendon’s Piccadilly house. It was true, shouted the people, that he had betrayed them. Was he not the friend of the French, and were the French not siding with the Dutch enemies of England? Who had sold Dunkirk? Who had married the King to a barren Queen that his own grandchildren might inherit the throne of England?

  The people needed a scapegoat and, as Charles studied their mood, he knew that they must have him before Parliament reassembled.

  Clarendon had been universally disliked since the early days of the Restoration; never had a man possessed more enemies. But for Charles’ protection over the last years, he would have long ago been set down from his high post.

  Now Charles himself no longer desired his services. He had grown tired of the man’s continual reproaches. No Chancellor should speak to a King as Clarendon talked to his. Charles had always been ready to listen to reproaches from men of virtue, because he knew that he himself was far from virtuous. He had always maintained that every man had a right to his opinion and to the expression of that opinion. It was a view with which Clarendon had not approved. But, thought Charles, while those virtuous people, who spoke their minds freely concerning the faults of others, might in many cases have right on their side, they became increasingly unattractive; moreover it was other people’s faults which they surveyed with such contempt, while they were apt to turn a blind eye to their own. Such as Clarendon believed that if a man lived a pious life and was faithful to one woman—and she his wife—intolerance, cruelty and carelessness of the feelings of others were no sins. That is where I differ, thought Charles; for I hold malice to be the greatest of sins; and I cannot believe that God would wish to make a man miserable for the sake of taking a little pleasure out of his way.

  But Clarendon must go. The country was demanding it; and if he stayed, the people might be incited to revolution. Moreover, Charles did not feel inclined to protect a man who, he was sure, had done everything in his power to rob him of Frances Stuart.

  But he did not wish Clarendon to suffer more than need be. He remembered the good advice the old man had given him when he was a wandering prince.

  So he called the Duke of York to him—for, after all, James was Clarendon’s son-in-law—and they talked together concerning the Chancellor.

  “He has to go,” said Charles.

  James did not think so. James was a fool, alas. Charles wondered what would happen to him if he lived to wear the crown, which might easily come to pass, as he, Charles, was possessed, it would seem, of a barren wife.

  “He is blamed for the conduct of the war,” said Charles. “Did you not know that on the day the Dutch sailed up the Medway the mob broke his windows and pulled down the trees before his house?”

  “He is not to blame. He took little part in the conduct of the war and only agreed to the suggestions of the experts.”

  “People rage against him. They say he has excluded the right men from ministerial posts and given those posts to those whom he considered to be of the nobility. Since you made his daughter a possible queen, he has, you will admit, been inclined to be haughty to the more lowly.”

  James’ mouth was stubborn. Charles knew that in supporting his father-in-law he was obeying his wife, for James was known to be under Anne Hyde’s control. Only a short while ago, Charles remembered, he had likened his brother to the henpecked husband in Epicene, or The Silent Woman, a play which had afforded him much amusement. Charles remembered ruefully that when he had mentioned this, one of the wits who surrounded him—and whom he had ordered to forget “His Majesty” in the cause of wit—had wanted to know whether it was better to be henpecked by a mistress than a wife.

  That made him think momentarily of Barbara. He was wishing that he could rid himself of her. Her rages were becoming more and more unbearable; they ceased to amuse as they had once done. If only Frances were at Court, and amenable!

  The memory of Frances turned his thoughts back to Clarendon who, he was sure, had done his best to arrange Frances’ marriage.

  He said: “The people accuse him of advising me to rule without a Parliament.”

  “That,” said James, “was what our father tried to do.”

  “I have no intention of doing it. James, face the truth. The peace we have concluded with the French and Dutch at Breda is a shameful one. The people must have a scapegoat. They demand a scapegoat, and none will do but Clarendon. Do you know that I have been threatened with the same fate which befell our father if I do not part with him? As for myself, his behavior and humors are insupportable to me and all the world else. I can no longer live with it. I must do those things which must be done with the Parliament, or the Government will be lost. James, do you want to set out on your wanderings once more? Have you forgotten the Hague and Paris? Have you forgotten what it means to be an exile? But mayhap we were lucky to be exiles. Our father was less fortunate. Be practical, brother. Be reasonable. He is your father-in-law. He was my old friend. I forget not his services to me. Do not let his enemies seize him and make a prisoner of him. God knows what would be his fate if he were taken to the Tower. Go to him now. Urge him to retire of his own free will. I doubt not that then he will be saved much trouble.”

  The Duke at length saw the wisdom of his brother’s plan and agreed to do this.

  After his interview with the Duke of York, Clarendon came to see the King. He still spoke in the manner of a schoolmaster. “And have you forgotten the days of your exile so soon then?” he asked. “Can you be so ungrateful as to cast off an old and faithful servant?”

  Charles was moved to pity. He said: “I warn you. I am sure that you will be impeached when the next Parliament sits. Too many are your enemies. If you value your own safety, resign now. Avoid the indignity of being forced to do so.”

  “Resign! I have been your chief minister ever since you were a King in fact—and indeed before that. Resign because my enemies blame me for the Dutch disaster! Your Majesty knows that my policy was not responsible for that defeat.”

  Charles said: “The plague, the fire, our lack of money—they are responsible for our disasters. I know that, my friend. I know it. But you have many enemies, many who have determined on your ruin. You are growing old. Why should you not spend your remaining days in comfortable retirement? That is what I should wish for you. I implore you, give up the Seal on your own account, before they take it from you and inflict God knows what. They are in an ugly mood.”

  “I shall never give up the Seal unless forced to do so,” said Clarendon.

  Charles lifted his shoulders and left the apartment.

  Barbara knew that Clarendon was with the King; she knew that the old man was receiving his dismissal. She was hilarious in her delight. For years she had worked for this—ever since the day he had refused to allow his wife to visit her.

  Now she waited in her bedchamber and joked with those who had gathered round her to witness what they knew to be the humiliating dismissal of the Chancellor.

  “Who was he to forbid his wife to see me!” demanded Barbara. “I was the King’s mistress; his daughter was the Duke’s before she duped him into making her his wife. And do you remember how he disowned her … how he declared he would rather see her James’ mistress than his wife! Yet he thought his family too fine … too virtuous to consort with me. Old fool! Mayhap he wishes he had not been so fine and virtuous now.”

  “He has left the King,” cried one of her friends. “He comes across the gardens now.”

  Barbara ran out into her aviary that she might not miss the sight of the old man’s humiliation.

  “There he goes!” she called. “There goes the man who was the Chancellor. Look you! He holds not his head so high
as he once did.”

  Then she broke into peals of mocking laughter, in which her companions joined.

  Clarendon walked quickly on as though he did not hear them.

  Clarendon’s enemies, led by Buckingham, were not content with Clarendon’s dismissal. They were determined to arraign him on a charge of high treason. Charges were drawn up, among which was one accusing him of betraying the King’s confidences to foreign Powers, and as this was nothing less than high treason it was clear that his enemies were after the ex-Chancellor’s blood.

  Charles was perturbed. He agreed that Clarendon was too old for his task, that his manner caused nothing but trouble to all those—including the King himself—who came into contact with him; he knew that his enemies had determined to destroy him.

  He wished to be rid of Clarendon; yet he would not stand by and see an old friend forced to the executioner’s block if he could help it.

  He sent word in secret to Clarendon, telling him that unless he left the country at once he would find himself facing a trial for high treason.

  Clarendon at last saw reason.

  On the night after he had received Charles’ message he was on his way to Calais.

  Barbara was delighted with the dismissal of Clarendon. She felt that her ascendancy over Charles was regained. She was congratulating herself on the disgrace of Frances Stuart who, she was sure, had wounded the King’s amour propre to such an extent that she would never be taken back into favor again.

  Barbara laughed over the affairs of Mrs. Stuart and Clarendon with her newest lover—little Henry Jermyn, one of the worst rakes at Court, and one of the smallest men to be met there; it was amusing to have for lovers the little Jermyn and the six-foot-tall King. Barbara was momentarily contented.

  As for Catherine, she was hopeful. She did not believe that Charles was really in love with Barbara, and she knew that he was deeply wounded by the elopement of Frances; she often rode out with the King, and the people who, blaming Clarendon for the Dutch disaster, had taken Charles back completely into their affection, would cheer them.

  Everywhere the King went was sung the latest song from the play Catch that Catch Can or The Musical Companion; and it was sung wholeheartedly.

  “Here’s a health unto His Majesty,

  With a fa, la, la;

  Conversion to his enemies,

  With a fa, la, la.

  And he that will not pledge his health,

  I wish him neither wit nor wealth,

  Nor yet a rope to hang himself,

  With a fa, la, la.”

  Catherine would discuss with Charles his plans for rebuilding the City and, as he seemed to ceased mourning over past failures and had his eyes firmly fixed on the future, she found that she could follow his lead.

  If only she could have a child! Then she believed that, with his own legitimate son and a wife who was ready to love him so tenderly, she and Charles could build a very happy relationship. God knew that she was willing and she could not believe that he, who was the kindest man in the world, could feel otherwise.

  Charles believed that the new cabinet council would succeed where Clarendon had failed. This was already beginning to be called the “Cabal” because of the first letters of the names of the five men who were its members: Clifford, Arlington, Buckingham, Ashley and Lauderdale. He was seeing Christopher Wren every day, and it seemed that before long a new City would spring up to replace the old one of wooden houses and narrow streets.

  Catherine was delighted to hear good news from her own country, and to learn that her brother, Don Pedro, had now succeeding in deposing his brother Alphonso; for Alphonso had become duller-witted as time passed and now, being almost an imbecile, it had seemed that unless there could be a peaceful abdication and the security of Portugal assured by Pedro, the Spaniards might march and subdue the disunited land.

  Everything is working towards some good end, decided Catherine.

  But one day Donna Maria asked her if she had noticed that the King was visiting the theater more regularly than usual. Donna Maria had heard that there was a reason for this, other than the play itself.

  Barbara was fuming.

  “I can scarcely believe it!” she cried. “So His Majesty will demean himself as far as that! He will go to a theater and, because some minx on the stage leers boldly enough, the King is delighted. The King is in love with a low playing wench.”

  “Madam,” said Mrs. Sarah, “I beg of you make no scenes in public.”

  Barbara slapped the woman’s face, but not too hard. She valued Mrs. Sarah too much.

  “Madam,” said Mrs. Sarah, standing back a little and placing her hands on her hips, “the King is enamored of a wench at the play. She dances a merry jig, and that pleases him.”

  “A pretty state of affairs! No wonder the young men of this City are such that modest maidens dare not go abroad. No wonder no woman is safe!”

  Mrs. Sarah had turned aside to hide a titter.

  “Don’t dare laugh at me, woman, or you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

  “Come, my lady, you’re not afraid to go abroad!”

  “By God, no!” cried Barbara. “Nor to go to the theater and to order the crowd to pelt the lewd creature with oranges and to hoot her off the stage.”

  “The King would not be pleased.”

  “The King will not be pleased! And should I be pleased to see him so demean himself?”

  Mrs. Sarah turned away. Even she dared not say that there were some who would consider he demeaned himself far more by his subservience to Lady Castlemaine than by any light fancy he might have for a play-actress.

  Barbara demanded that her hat with the yellow plume be brought for her, her carriage called.

  “You’re not going to the play, my lady?” cried Mrs. Sarah.

  “Of a certainty I am going to the play,” retorted Barbara.

  With the patch under her right eye to set off the brilliance of those features, and the small spot by her mouth to call attention to the fullness of her lips, and ablaze with jewels to the value of some £40,000, she set out to see Dryden’s new play The Maiden Queen, for the part of Florimel was played by an Eleanor Gwyn, and it was said that the King was somewhat taken with the actress, although he was more deeply involved with another playgirl named Moll Davies.

  “Play-girls!” muttered Barbara. “This is too much to be borne.” She would sit in her box—next to the King’s—and she would look haughtily at the stage, and then perhaps he would compare her with the low creature who, it was said, had caught his fancy with her merry jig and playing of a part.

  She was aware of the interest of the pit as she took her place in the box. She looked over their heads and appeared to be concentrating on the stage. She liked the common people to stare at her, and she was glad she was glittering with jewels, and that the yellow plume in her hat so became her. The orange-girls stared at her in candid admiration; all eyes in the house were on her. The King and his brother, however, were watching the stage, and that maddened her.

  And there was the girl—a small, bright, slender thing with tumbled curls and a cockney wit which the part would not suppress. A low-born player! thought Barbara; yet the King and the Duke were intent. And the player knew it; that was evident from the way in which she darted quick glances at the royal box.

  The King knew Barbara was there; but he was growing very indifferent to Barbara—even to the scenes she would create. He kept his eyes on the stage.

  But now one of the players had caught Barbara’s attention. He was one of the handsomest men she had ever set eyes on, and what a physique! Her eyes glittered and narrowed; mayhap there was an attraction about these players.

  She turned to the woman who had accompanied her, and pointed to the man.

  “Charles Hart, my lady. Eleanor Gwyn, they say, is his mistress.”

  Barbara felt an inclination to laugh. She said to her woman: “You will go to Mr. Charles Hart and tell him that he may call on me.”r />
  “Call on your ladyship!”

  “Are you deaf, fool? That was what I said. And tell him there should be no delay. I will see him at eight of the clock this night.”

  The woman was alarmed, but, like all those in Barbara’s service, realizing the need for immediate obedience, left Barbara’s box.

  Barbara sat back, vaguely aware of the King in his box, of the girl on the stage, and the play which was about to end.

  “I am resolved to grow fat and look young till forty,” said the impudent little player, “and then slip out of the world with the first wrinkle and the reputation of five and twenty.”

  The pit roared its approval and called: “Dance your jig, Nelly. Dance your jig!”

  The girl had come forward and was talking to them, and the King was laughing and applauding with all those in the pit.

  Charles Hart! thought Barbara. “What a handsome man!” Why had she not come to the theater to look for a lover before now? And how piquant to take the lover of that brazen creature who was daring to throw languorous glances at the King!

  The King was visiting Barbara less frequently; his relationship with the Queen had settled into a friendly one, but Catherine knew that she was as far as ever from reaching that relationship which she had enjoyed during the honeymoon. And it seemed to her that morals at the Court were growing more and more lax with the passing of the years.

  The affair of Buckingham was characteristic of the conduct of the times. The Earl of Shrewsbury had challenged the Duke to a duel on account of his misconduct with Anna Shrewsbury, and on a cold January day they met. Their seconds engaged each other and one was killed, another badly wounded, so Buckingham and Shrewsbury were left to fight alone. Buckingham fatally wounded Shrewsbury, and a week or so later Shrewsbury was dead. There was an uproar in the Commons against the duelists even before Shrewsbury died, and the King promised that he would impose the extreme penalty in future on any who engaged in dueling; sober people were disgusted that one of their chief ministers should have engaged himself in a duel over his mistress; and when Shrewsbury died, Buckingham came very near to being expelled from the Cabal. Wild rumors were circulated. It was said that Lady Shrewsbury, disguised as a page, had held her lover’s horse and witnessed her husband’s murder, and that the two lovers, unable to suppress their lust, satisfied it there and then while Buckingham was still bespattered with the husband’s blood.