Girl on the Golden Coin: A Novel of Frances Stuart

by Jefferson, Marci

  “Yes,” I replied, reining in my sorrow. If I had to lose the king, I’d rather lose him to Queen Catherine than Castlemaine, after all.

  The morning we were prepared to leave, Queen Catherine started bleeding. Her dressers fetched me to her rooms. I found her doubled over on the floor with blood streaming down her legs and pooling around her nightgown. I sent for the physicians and held her hands as she passed clots and blood. The physicians told her there was no hope, and the blood continued to pour out of her. And, finally, a miniature infant prince. Fully formed and pale, snatched too early from the womb.

  “Tell me he lives,” cried Queen Catherine. “My babe must live.” I touched his lifeless form, dumbfounded and frightened at the fragility of life. I shook my head, and her face crumpled with anguish. I held her when she wailed, and I cried with her. I told myself I cried for her loss. But part of me also mourned things I would never have.

  * * *

  Back at Whitehall in February, the gossips were full of contempt for Castlemaine, and Castlemaine was full of deceit. She tried to convince King Charles that the queen had never really been pregnant. He waved her off; he knew the signs of a woman’s body better than anyone. Yet, as reward for his new illegitimate son, she had been given gold plate and new jewels. She amassed a fortune, though there was no money anywhere else. Queen Catherine could not pay her ladies. Sailors—sailors who had escaped the plague, sailors who had risked their lives for England, sailors who had fought without pay—died of starvation outside the Navy Office.

  At the end of March, Queen Catherine received word that her mother had died in Portugal, and she withdrew completely into melancholy. “My Queen,” I said in her bedchamber one afternoon, “would it please you to go to the theater? Out riding in the park?”

  “No.” Pale and drawn, she sat wrapped in a dressing gown, cradling her tea dish. “I will observe mourning for my mother, and time heal my grief.”

  I sipped my tea in silence.

  “Physicians tell me wait to conceive. I am weak and tired. I’ll no heal fast enough. I want you go to him. You can keep him from that…” Her lips turned in a pale, jagged frown. “That … whore!” Her china dish slipped from her hands and clattered to the table.

  I set it right and wiped the tea up with a cloth. “Forgive me. I cannot do as you command. I cannot continue to undermine you in that way.” My hands trembled. “He wants to be honorable to you, to have a legitimate heir, and be a king his subjects can admire.”

  “I won’t blame you,” she whispered.

  For several minutes I said nothing, just stared at the bits of tea leaves drying on the cloth. “Your Majesty,” I finally said, “things have happened between the king and me these last years. If the king decided he wanted me again, understand, I could not be satisfied with things as they were before.” I stared into her eyes, imploring her to comprehend.

  She nodded. “He is kindest to me when he is closest to you.”

  CHAPTER 45

  April

  Every member of the queen’s household wore black. No cosmetics, no coiffures, no jewelry. We looked very bleak in mourning for Queen Catherine’s mother. Castlemaine stood opposite me with her arms crossed, face glazed over in boredom as she watched the queen at her toilette table.

  Of us all, Castlemaine looked the worst without her vanities. With dark circles under her eyes and no wig, she seemed positively sallow.

  Queen Catherine lounged in the sunken tub of the bathing chamber that morning. She ordered a full hair wash, and oil for her nails. She dressed and redressed. When her hair was combed dry, she had us experiment with modest hair arrangements, and asked our opinion as to which would be most appropriate for a queen in mourning. Then her gaze flicked to her clock. “My Lady Castlemaine, King Sharles has been staying out far too late. I fear he catch cold if you continue to keep him at your house long into the night.”

  Castlemaine snorted. “He isn’t staying at my house too late. It doesn’t take long for me to satisfy him.” She grinned at me, but I looked away. “He must have another mistress he’s sneaking off to afterward.” She glanced at me again, as if seeking corroboration.

  King Charles was standing in the doorway. He approached Castlemaine and looked coolly into her eyes. “You’ve gone too far. You are bold and impertinent and you disrespect the queen. Leave court and don’t return until I send for you.”

  She recoiled. “How dare you!”

  He spoke in a tone that brooked no refusal. “Get out.”

  * * *

  When King Charles entered my bedchamber hours later, he bowed.

  I curtsied. When I glanced up, I saw uncertainty in his eyes.

  “I want to apologize for—”

  “Your Majesty has not offended me.”

  He sighed. “Alas. I could not satisfy you with regard to the French matter. I am sorry for however that may inconvenience your … relationship with King Louis.”

  “It … doesn’t matter anymore.”

  He cleared his throat. “As to Louis, I feel I should tell you something which may be of consolation.”

  I wanted to embrace him, find a way to start over. But I gestured toward the cane-backed chairs. He pulled one out for me, then sat himself. “Do you remember my assertion that King Louis wants nothing more than to seize the Spanish Netherlands?” He studied my face before he went on. “Years ago I told King Louis that I would not oppose his claims on that land.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I tell you in hopes that it will ease your suffering. The French ambassadors have let you think you failed in securing an alliance between England and France. Louis wasn’t seeking to gain my friendship. He was only seeking not to offend me so I will keep my word, allow him to advance on the Spanish Netherlands. All the pleas for alliance were meant to impart his goodwill. An outward sign to show his unwillingness to fulfill his deal with the Dutch. Only Louis and I would understand that, I’m afraid. I never mentioned it because I thought he might have told you.”

  “You thought I … was a goodwill offering?”

  “If Louis hadn’t told you—” He shrugged. “I was unsure how much you felt for him.”

  “You didn’t want his concealment to hurt me.”

  We sat silently, the new truths echoing between us for several moments.

  Years of guilt pressed on me. I had to tell him the full truth without dishonoring his sister. I wanted to be honorable, virtuous. I wanted to be the woman he thought me. I wanted to be the real Frances. I heard myself blurt, “King Louis wanted to make me his mistress. When I refused his proposal … he became angry.” I gripped the arms of my chair. “He made me promise to seduce you and ensure an alliance. He never told me about your agreement.”

  “Why did you refuse him?” He leaned forward, so close to my face that I could feel his breath, earnestly seeking my answer.

  Madame’s face, hurt and angry, flashed before my eyes. “I was so young. And it hurt your sister. She loved him more.”

  “I always wondered if those rumors were true.” He shook his head. “You never fulfilled your promise to Louis.”

  I held up my hand. “It was plain that bedding you would not ensure your compliance in any political matter. I failed him and deceived you.” My voice became a harsh whisper. “Now you see me for what I really am.”

  King Charles stood abruptly. He paced to the window and braced his hands on either side, muttering, “Always be wary of ambitious men.”

  I ached to follow him, to pull his hands down and around me.

  “There is nothing that can come between us now.” He turned to face me. “Am I right? Is there nothing else? My mother is gone back to France, the war is decided. Is there anything more that might cause difficulty between us? You must tell me now if anyone else separates us. I cannot stand the distance keeping us apart.”

  “Oh, Charles.” My composure fell.

  “Do not cry. Tell me what else remains.”

  “Nothing at al
l, and yet so many small things.” His image wavered between watery and clear. The small things were my own failures. My dishonesty, my lies, my risks—they reined me in. But he looked at me with such expectation, such hope, that I knew I must let them go. I deliberated and carefully selected my answer. “Two things. Lady Castlemaine. I cannot see myself fully open with you while she is still between us. The second matter is your wife.”

  “What of the queen?”

  “I will not humiliate her. Much as I desire you, you are still her husband. I am loath to dishonor her by becoming your mistress.”

  He paused. “How is such sin overcome?”

  “She understands you completely and has asked me to replace Lady Castlemaine as your mistress.”

  “Did you agree?”

  I nodded slowly. “Only if you want me alone. I refuse to fight Lady Castlemaine for you any further.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  It seemed enough. At least all I needed to say.

  “You did not contest when I called this sin. What about tomorrow when the rumors fly? The accusations and the damnation of the people whispering about the king’s whore?”

  “If we continue with discretion, they will have no reason to say such things.”

  “Discretion I can give you. If I take your body…” He closed the distance between us. “I will never return to Barbara. If you give yourself to me…”

  I closed my eyes and absorbed the fascinating heat his touch always sparked.

  “I may not be able to return to the queen’s bed. England will start to suspect. What will my angel do then? What will you do if you cannot hide this sin?”

  “I—I do not know. But I want you. There is the honesty you want. It will have to be enough for you.”

  “Say that again.”

  “It will have to be enough for you,” I whispered.

  “Not that.” He gripped me so tight I could scarcely move.

  “I do want your love.”

  He grasped my face with both hands and kissed me with such intensity all thought soared from my mind. When he finally broke away, he whispered, “Will it be enough for you?” I tried to pull his head back down to kiss. “Say it will be enough for you. Say you will finally live for yourself.”

  We moved without thinking to the bed. Every part of me wanted him to take me. He tugged at my silk, pulling the pearl clasps until he could push the gown away. As he looked down at my body, he threw off his own clothes. When he was completely naked, firelight dancing naughty shadows across his skin, he met my eyes.

  I opened my legs and bent them at the knees. Lifting, aching for him to join me, to finally fill me. But he did not touch me. “You will say it.” He crept between my knees and placed one hand beside each of my shoulders, not even grazing my skin.

  I placed a hand on each side of his face. “Love will be enough.”

  He lowered to his elbows. “Then I will take you and never relinquish you.”

  My whole body trembled as he pressed against me.

  “It will only hurt at first,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER 46

  Without doubt the king’s passion was stronger for Frances Stuart than ever it was to any other woman; and she carried it with discretion and modesty.

  —LORD CLARENDON’S MEMOIR

  The next morning, King Charles delivered a Dutch cabinet, covered in exquisite tortoiseshell and adorned with the royal arms. He opened it to reveal dozens of little drawers within and said, “I promise to fill each one to overflowing with jewels to adorn my love.” He skipped his council meetings, and we spent the entire day alone in my chambers.

  As we did many, many times after.

  King Charles maintained peace with Castlemaine and continued visits to her, for the sake of their children. But he paid a huge sum to settle all her debts. Severance. Thus, outwardly nothing changed. She was the apparent mistress, but I reigned in private.

  * * *

  I slipped from my bedstead two months later, naked, and opened my tortoiseshell cabinet. I pulled out my pearl necklace and tied it behind my neck. He gestured for me to return to bed. Instead, I let him watch me walk through my dim chamber to the window. I pushed it open to the night sky and the peal of church bells.

  I turned to pour wine. “You can see the celebratory bonfires dotting the whole city. This victory will do much to buoy England’s spirits.”

  His smile fell when I handed him a glass. “We had quality vessels, and they maneuvered well. But in a sea battle squadrons pass and repass each other, each barraging the other with cannon until they either sink or retreat. After four days of fighting, we’re the ones who retreated.”

  I put my glass aside. “We’d heard it was a victory.”

  “We lost ten ships, maybe six thousand men. We must raise money, refit the navy, recruit more sailors, and send out again.”

  I walked to the window once more. “The streets are nearly empty of men as it is.”

  “We must prepare quickly, for King Louis has seized our West Indian colony. He may engage us directly.”

  “Where will either of you get enough of anything to keep fighting?”

  He was behind me and turned me around. “Let’s not talk about that now.”

  But I couldn’t curb my fear. “My brother is nearly of age. If King Louis finally attacks us, will he be forced to fight? Will my brother be forced to fight for France?”

  * * *

  I tried not to seem surprised when the king’s men hired merchant ships for battle, called in the militia, pressed a loan from the City, and extracted funds from the clergy. To replace deserters and thousands of dead sailors, troops seized men off the streets and impressed others from the countryside. Old men and boys, the sick and the lame, were escorted like prisoners onto the ships. I pretended not to think of my brother when I heard of it, and instead organized to escape the summer heat on another trip to Tunbridge Wells with Queen Catherine.

  In mid-July, while we watched actors summoned from London perform for us, we heard word of the St. James’s Day Fight. In August we returned to Whitehall, and news arrived of Holmes’s Bonfire. We’d burned nearly two hundred Dutch merchant ships. But our mutilated fleet glided into our harbors like ghosts on water, and we all knew we hadn’t really won.

  CHAPTER 47

  It’s so small, a woman could piss it out.

  —THOMAS BLUDWORTH,

  lord mayor of London, September 2, 1666

  Less than a month later, in the first hours of a Sunday morning in September, a small fire started in the city. The dry summer had left London as ignitable as a basket of kindling. I smelled something burning at dawn and stretched from my window to see around the bend of the river Thames. All I could discern was enough smoke to indicate a huge area near London Bridge was blazing.

  “Prudence, where is Mary?” I asked as she tied my bodice laces.

  “She went out, milady. Her day off. Maybe she went ta hear one of her masses?”

  I went to the king’s chambers where everyone had gathered to hear his chaplain, when a man bustled in. A secretary for the navy, with access to court; I recognized him from the theater and the park. “Parts of London Bridge are burning. Nearly three hundred houses, churches, and taverns are on fire, and no one’s doing anything to put it out.”

  “What’s your name?” someone asked.

  “Mr. Samuel Pepys,” he replied. “Someone has to tell the king.”

  King Charles soon emerged, gave the man instructions, and sent him off. But the blaze raged out of control in the warehouses, igniting their flammable goods. The king and the Duke of York took the state barge out to be sure the lord mayor of London was pulling down houses in the fire’s path in order to stop it. An eastern gale made things worse, and by nightfall I didn’t have to strain from my window to see the red glow beyond the river bend. Sparks of fire shot high into the night and fell down like burning rain.

  I was relieved when Mary returned that night, but Prudence corne
red her. “Jest where have ye been?”

  “Somerset House, at chapel and at rest.” She saw the suspicion in Prudence’s glare. “What? It was my day off!”

  King Charles and the Duke of York organized the city to action. Commanding Life Guards, magistrates, militia, nobles, common workmen, and even members of the Privy Council, they toiled day and night against the fire. They used gunpowder to demolish buildings in the fire’s path and handed out gold coins to keep the people working. But the flames only leaped further, past the gaps they created. Families fled their homes, possessions bundled in their arms, to makeshift shelters in the parks. Rations of the Royal Navy’s biscuits were dispersed, though they were soon found inedible. Those who had the means took to the river Thames. Every dinghy and skiff bobbing under the smoke seemed piled with poor souls on a doomed journey to Hades. Even the water itself seemed to burn in places where tar and fat oozed onto the river’s surface. I thought it might really be hell when I could see St. Paul’s ablaze, its lead roof melting, stones from its wall bursting from the furious heat.

  From Whitehall Palace, we heard the screams, the explosions, the crack and crumble of walls, and the ceaseless raging roar of the inferno. Eventually we couldn’t see the flames through the thick, black, stinking smoke that filled the courtyards and darkened our chamber walls.

  Life Guards were dispatched to pack up Whitehall’s most valued treasures and move them to Hampton Court, warning the queen to be ready to evacuate at the king’s command. On hearing this, Prudence wrapped her belongings in a sack, tied it to her back, then fell to her knees in prayer. Mary recited rosaries in the closet. Too unworthy to approach God or his saints, I packed my art and my jewels with trembling hands and hoped the two of them would say a prayer for King Charles on my behalf.

  Finally, on the fourth day, the wind and the city fell quiet.