I studied the elaborate painted panels on the ceiling, and the vibrant blues, greens, and reds in the biblical scenes painted along the walls, hundreds of years old. Edward the Confessor had died in this room, and Henry the Eighth had slept here. This room had seen more history than we could ever recall.
King Charles explained the details of the religious risings, and then did something he’d never wished to do. He prompted his Parliament to limit the freedom of his subjects. I caught the Duke of Richmond’s eye. We both realized this must be done to prevent another rebellion. To keep the civil peace that had barely settled upon England.
* * *
A month later I rose from my bedstead in a long shift and mantua gown. King Charles tried to grab me back, but I dodged him, laughing, and fetched ale and cheese tarts from my cabinet. When I brought them back to the bed, he pulled me up, tickling me. I tried to fend him off by stuffing a bite of tart into his mouth, and he settled down to our snack.
But when Prudence came in to light the sconces, he kept an eye on her. “Be sure to keep her in,” he said when she’d gone. “The militia will arrest any Quakers they catch meeting together in the same place. Hundreds are in prison. If they can’t pay their fines, they’re transported to the Americas.”
“At least Parliament cooperated with you this time.”
“It isn’t what I wanted, but I won’t have them rise against me just after my Restoration. If nothing else, I’m determined to keep my kingdom.”
“The Duke of Richmond told me of the violence in Dorchester. He serves you loyally there.”
He took a long swig from the bottle of ale. “Frances, I do believe you’re seeking favor for him.”
I laughed. “It doesn’t really suit me, does it?” I let it drop, but I knew he’d heard me.
* * *
“We need a gallant to lead us in a branle!” called a lady among the tipsy courtiers in Castlemaine’s new lodgings over the Holbein Gate of Whitehall Palace. The end of May was King Charles’s birthday and the anniversary of his return to London.
I grabbed a candle from a sconce and stepped to the center of the room. Fashionably dressed as a soldier in pantaloons, buff doublet, blond periwig, and a gilded scabbard hanging from a gold belt, I bowed, and the courtiers made appreciative ahs. King Charles smiled approvingly and the violinists began. I held the candle aloft and danced a branle des flambeaux. With three quick hop-steps, I gave a little kick and held my toe pointed long enough for the courtiers to clap. Castlemaine watched me with a guarded grin, and I repeated the steps around the chamber.
It was only fitting that the apparent official mistress host his party. But Castlemaine knew better than to throw any entertainment without my presence. Her new apartments had views of the Privy Garden, King Street, the Strand, and St. James’s Park. Huge windows were thrown open to the spring warmth, and her violin music carried to every corner of Whitehall. She needed the whole world to believe she was the king’s official mistress. I didn’t need to prevent that belief, though every part of me wanted to be rid of her.
I presented my hand to her. She didn’t hesitate to link her little finger around mine, hitch up her skirts, and dance with me. Still graceful with her bodice laced tight, one could hardly tell she was five months gone with child. When we’d completed one turn around the chamber, I leaned in for a kiss, as if I really were a gallant. She pressed her lips to mine, of course, and her guests laughed. I presented the candle to her, stepped aside, and let her carry on the dance alone. Soon she would choose King Charles as her partner and everyone would be dancing with candles.
I took a glass from a footman and stepped onto the balcony overlooking the Privy Garden. It was enclosed as an aviary, and birds scattered as I leaned against the bars to catch my breath. As I sipped my wine, I caught sight of a lady rushing through the grounds. Something about her gait was familiar, and when she reached the garden door, I recognized her. Prudence. The little fool will get herself arrested.
The Life Guards let her slip out, and she turned left toward the King Street Gate, the open city, and Westminster. I moved through Castlemaine’s guests as casually as I could. When I reached the stairs, I flew down and went through a closed door onto King Street. She disappeared through the King Street Gate, and I walked in that direction, so as not to raise suspicion from the guards at the Privy Garden wall.
At the gate, I peeped through. The gables on the many taverns and houses towered overhead, making the road seem narrower than it was. I pulled my cavalier hat down tight on my head and slipped out. I ran after her, keeping close to the tavern walls. “Pru!” I called. But she rushed onward.
A scantily dressed woman emerged from the shadows. “Oy gent, ’ere’s yer lady.”
Startled, I stepped aside, tripping into the sludge of the road. I ran ahead, with only the candles from the tavern windows to light my way. I caught Prudence by the arm just before she rounded a corner. “Come with me.”
She spun around, struggled, peered at my face, then looked guilty as sin. “Sorry, milady. I was jest goin’ ta meet my friends.”
“Your Quaker friends? The militia will beat you! Do you want to get yourself transported to the Americas?”
She tried to break free but I wouldn’t let go.
“You’re coming back with me.”
Just then, two militiamen stepped out of a tavern across the street. The sounds of beer mugs clanking and laughter spilled out behind them. “Ye got one of them Quakers, milord?” one of them called. “We can help ye.”
I froze. Should I run? Draw my scabbard? “Nay,” I called in a deep voice. The scantily dressed woman reappeared. A tavern window opened. “Nay,” I said again. “Just a twopenny whore who thinks she’s worth three!”
Prudence stopped struggling and gaped at me. The men laughed and went back inside. I hauled her by the arm all the way down the street, through King Street Gate, through the guards at the garden door, and under the torches of the Privy Garden before I released her. “Go back to bed,” I said, short of breath. “And if you value your life, you won’t do that again.”
“That’s jest it,” she muttered. “I do value my life, and I think I ought ta be able to do as I wish. You certainly do.”
I stared at her a moment. “I promised King Charles I’d look after you. So you can’t.”
CHAPTER 33
The River Thames
August
The black expanse overhead glimmered with heavenly diamonds that remained stationary as we glided down the Thames on the way home from Greenwich. The queen smiled dreamily, watching violinists pull a melody that echoed off the water. I reclined at my end of the long dining table, sated by the supper we’d just eaten. I may have appeared perfectly at ease, but I could never loosen the tension that waited, coiled around my spirit.
I’d waited for months for the Queen Mother to dismiss my family, but it never happened. I’d become closer to King Charles, and he deflected any slander hurled at my name. I found myself listening for his footfall on the marble floors in my antechamber. I thought of his smile always. But with so little left of truth in me, and with so many duties left unfulfilled, I could not allow myself to love him. I was nothing like the angel he thought me to be.
I eyed Cornbury, lounging across from me. “You’ve not said two words this whole supper.”
“I am in a foul mood.” Cornbury gave me an apologetic smile and looked at the stars. “Forget me. I am merely the son of an unpopular man. Everyone hates the lord chancellor who I am obligated to obey. If his enemies unseat him, I have only my sister for my protection. But you, la Belle? You are the picture of perfection in your silver lace ensemble. Every artist in London flocks to Whitehall for the opportunity to paint your picture. You must be the happiest girl in all the world.”
He was right. I had every outward reason for joy. “At least your father doesn’t want war with the Dutch. The Comte de Cominges presses King Charles constantly to avoid it.”
“Louis s
igned an alliance with the Dutch.” He shrugged. “If they go to war with us, he is bound to aid them.” Cornbury frowned. “Why should you concern yourself over it? The cabal who gamble and carouse at Lady Castlemaine’s house are the ones stirring up talks of war. They want to fill their purses by increasing our trade in the Indies. The Duke of York wants his American colonies.”
“Do you think your father can persuade the king to remain neutral?”
He groaned. “The lord chancellor has no more sway over King Charles than his mistresses do.” He shot me a look. “Ah, no offense to you, of course.”
“I’m not his mistress.”
“There is much to be gained if we are victorious. York, Rupert, the king, Bennet, Albemarle, Sandwich. They all hold shares in the Company of Royal Adventurers Trading to Africa and the East India Trading Company. They cannot establish trading ports because the Dutch are overrunning them all. Profit is motivation enough for war.”
The prospect of the African trade had been bantered about among the court recently. “So we will go to war for more opportunity to kidnap natives and sell them to slavery? This turns my stomach.”
He smiled for the first time in days. “England has changed. How do you suggest we raise funds? Would you have him tax the wool sellers and farmers more than he does already? The people outside London don’t have money to be taxed. The world is a new place. Buying cheap goods in the Indies and selling them for more is the only way to make money now. It’s how the Dutch have become so wealthy.”
“If our countrymen are so poor, who shall buy these goods?”
“The colonies. And the guilds, the companies, the merchants, the ports, the shipbuilders, the captains, all these will increase. The trade process will propagate until the countrymen benefit. And if the king has shares in all of this, his purse will swell. He won’t rely on Parliament’s grants of money.” He pointed at me, all trace of his morose mood gone. “And if he can free himself of Parliament, he can pursue any policy he wants.”
“You sound convinced, but I thought you didn’t want war.”
He sighed. “Without money, how can we become a powerful nation, safe from threat?”
“Are we threatened?”
“The Catholic Church is always a threat. King Louis is a growing threat.”
“I cannot speak for the others, but King Louis desires friendship with England.”
He studied me carefully. “You sound as if you can speak for King Louis.”
“I only know he wouldn’t want to defend the Dutch against us.” And I alone wouldn’t be able to stop England from forcing him to do it. I hid my face in my wineglass, wishing I could conceal my many secrets so easily.
CHAPTER 34
Whitehall Palace
September
Autumn nipped the air outside the windows of the Vane Room at Whitehall Palace. It breezed in, lifting my filmy silk sleeve. I looked to my bared breast and watched my nipple tighten. The engraver, Roettier, noticed, too. He cleared his throat and stepped behind his easel, sketching away.
In my right hand, I held a long spear, while my left rested on a shield emblazoned with the overlapping crosses of Saint Andrew and Saint George. The footstool I sat upon would be depicted as a globe. Loose curls escaped the knot behind my head, falling around my ears and down my neck. My shoulders, arms, and right leg stretched from the folds of a belted Romanesque gown.
King Charles had shown me an ancient coin dredged from the Thames. “See the woman here. This is the figure the ancient Romans chose to represent this land when they conquered it more than a thousand years ago. They called her Britannia. I plan to issue new farthings and halfpennies next year. My profile shall be on one side, and you, as a triumphant Britannia, will bare your fine leg on the reverse.”
“Is this your way of declaring to all England that mine are the finest legs in the country?”
“Not just in England, my love. You will be gazing across the four seas, sitting on the world, where your beauty will declare our might. Britannia the Beautiful.”
King Charles had appointed this honor to me after Castlemaine had birthed him another daughter. I felt triumphant, indeed.
The unmistakable sound of the king’s Life Guards marching in the outer chambers echoed against the walls. I turned my head, listening to him command his followers to wait.
“Ahem. Mademoiselle Stuart,” Roettier said. “You mustn’t move.”
King Charles appeared in the doorway, beaming. “We’ve got it!”
I dropped my spear and jumped up, running to embrace him. “What have we got, my love?” I asked, kissing his cheek.
“New Amsterdam,” he said, smiling and waving his arm. “By New England on the coast of the Americas. I told James he could have the land if he could reclaim it from the Dutch. We had it before, but they edged us out for the good ports and trade. Now we’ve got it back, and he’s going to rename it after himself. New York.”
“So we shall not have to fight a war?”
King Charles eyed the artist and tipped his head toward the door.
Roettier dropped his tools and scampered out.
The king pressed his lips against mine. They were hot yet soft, and his thin mustache tickled the skin under my nose. I could feel the warmth of him; his kisses were coaxing, searching, opening. Desire swept through my blood. I could not stop it, knew it would come, yet it always took me by surprise. And I suspect he felt it. “Charles,” I whispered. We embraced thus for ages, kissing and fondling and unable to do more. A true angel would do no more.
He tipped my head back with one hand and used the other to brace my backside. He licked the top of my breast, tracing a path with his tongue up my neck to my ear. I felt the surging need to squeeze my legs around his thigh, which he had planted between mine.
This is where I always halted.
I circled his neck with my arms and looked at the open window behind him. I called on the girl he thought me to be: the angelic Stuart he needed to keep him honorable. I caused the window in my heart to close. I could see him, I could feel him, but my body was not moved by him. I suspect he felt this, too.
Sometimes he would go on touching, despite my stillness, because he wanted to pretend I was his in every way. He would undress me, trace my breasts with his fingertips, mold his hands over my navel. Sometimes he held me so tightly I could swear he was afraid to let go.
Other times, I know he went on because he had a duty to fulfill. He would touch and taste me, beg me to say something shocking. He rubbed against me, breathing me in, not looking at my face. He would kiss me abruptly good-bye, leaving without cooling his arousal first. Those were the nights he went to Queen Catherine’s bed.
Yet, more often with the passing of time, he would simply stop when I closed the window. He still put me to bed, kissed me, and talked with me, calming himself before leaving, but he didn’t seem to have the desire to go on pursuing me. As if he didn’t want to suffer the anguish anymore.
This was one of those times. He broke away, led me back to my seat, and rearranged my hair. “Roettier,” he called.
“Your Majesty,” I said. “About King Louis—”
“We’ve gained a footing from the Dutch, a port in the Indies. They will surely concede. All will turn to nothing.” He turned, ending the subject. “Roettier, you must put all your English pride into this engraving. It will be la Belle Stuart’s legacy.”
CHAPTER 35
Woolwich Harbor, England
October
King Charles waved his hand gracefully, face lit like a child’s at the sight of a new plaything. “It is the bow that makes her so impressive,” he said to Queen Catherine. “At twelve hundred tons burden she will carry no less than seventy guns.”
With both feet rooted firmly on the deck of the state barge while it pitched and heaved in Woolwich Harbor, I gripped the side rail and stared up in awe at England’s great pride. The Royal Navy. Or at least part of it. The newly constructed ship hovered over th
e water, awaiting her launch.
The river swayed, and my legs moved to accommodate the tilt. I swallowed the bile in my throat. But Ambassador de Cominges approached me, and the bile rose up fresh.
“King Charles plans to paint the Dutch as aggressors in the next Parliament and appeal for money to fund a war.”
I tightened my grip on the rail. “He only wants the Dutch to concede a fair share in the trade ventures.”
“It will lead to skirmishes, to engagements, to battles at sea. It will force King Louis to aid the Dutch against the English.”
I whispered fervently, glancing around to be sure no one heeded us. “I assure you, King Charles desires friendship with King Louis.”
“Hatred for the Dutch brews in the London mob, stirred by the talk of war at court.”
“If King Charles doesn’t want a war, none can force it on him.”
“Are you certain?” He shook his head. “They executed Charles the First. I am concerned about the stability of this restored monarchy.” I looked away, but he went on. “Every waterman and tiler thinks it his right to talk about affairs of state. They debate in the coffeehouses what should be done at court. Their talk can sway Parliament. Since Parliament controls the money, King Charles must cooperate with them.”
“If any king can balance the opposing political forces pulling at England, it is he.”
Cominges glanced nervously at the massive hull of the new warship. “For your sake, mademoiselle, for Britain, I hope so.”
* * *
The tension didn’t seem to affect King Charles. He basked in the glory of receptions and dances and supper parties. Then, in the black of night in mid-December, I woke to the sight of him leaning over me, his black periwig hanging down so long it brushed my cheeks.
“What time is it?”
“Too late,” he said. “I wanted to show you something, but seeing you this way makes me want to crawl in and stay here.”
I grinned, pulled him to me, and kissed him deeply.
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