Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 10]

by The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II

  “She mixes in the highest circles,” said Anne Villiers.

  “Indeed, yes.” Sarah obviously could not resist going on. “That is why she has become so well known not only at court, not only in London, but throughout the country.”

  “There are many who would be greatly honored by the King’s friendship.”

  “Honor?” went on Sarah. “There are times when it is difficult to differentiate. What is honor? What is dishonor? It is for all to make up their minds.” Sarah was smiling triumphantly, because she knew Elizabeth Villiers had been trounced.

  I was rather bewildered by this conversation and took the first opportunity of consulting Anne Trelawny.

  “It seemed to me that they were talking in riddles,” I said.

  “Not they. Elizabeth Villiers does not like Sarah Jennings, so she wants to remind her all the time of her obscure origins, and that it is only by sheer good luck that she has a place here. But Sarah is not going to take that lightly. She retaliates that people in great families can act scandalously, and, of course, Barbara Villiers is the notorious Lady Castlemaine, and is the cousin of these Villiers girls.”

  “Anne,” I said, “people seem to want to keep things from me. Don’t you, please. I am not a child any more.”

  “I dare say you will be going to court one day and you will know about these matters. You would soon discover that Lady Castlemaine is the King’s mistress, for they make no secret of this. He spends much time with her. She is most indiscreet. And everyone knows what happens between them.”

  “But the King is married!”

  That made Anne smile. “It makes no difference. It happens with people in high places.”

  “It does not happen with my father,” I said fiercely.

  Anne was silent. Then she said: “The King is so often with Lady Castlemaine.”

  “But what of the Queen? Does she know this?”

  “The Queen most assuredly knows.”

  “The poor lady.”

  “Yes, that is what many say. But life is like that.”

  “I like my uncle so much. He is so merry … and kind.”

  “He is much liked.”

  “I cannot believe he would act so.”

  “People have many sides to their natures. This is one of the King’s. Lady Castlemaine is not the first by any means. You know of your cousin, the Duke of Monmouth. You know he is not heir to the throne, but he is the King’s son.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “He was born when the King was in exile. He is without doubt the King’s son. The King accepts him as such. But he is not the King’s legitimate son and therefore cannot inherit the throne. As you grow up you learn to accept that such things happen.”

  “I am glad my father is not like that.”

  She looked at me a little sadly but with great affection.

  “I think the Queen must be very unhappy,” I said. “I am sorry. She is such a kindly lady. I shall never like the King so much again.”

  THE BISHOP HAD ARRIVED. He was a man in his early forties, I imagined, which seemed ancient to us. He was not unkind, nor very severe, but he was determined that he was going to teach us to become good Protestants.

  I understood later that he was not very learned academically and that side of our education was neglected to some extent. What he was determined to do was set our feet on the right path and, in view of our parents’ religious inclinations, it was very important that we should not be contaminated by them.

  That was exactly what he had been ordered to do and I realized later that it was a perfectly reasonable arrangement. My father was, at that time, heir to the throne, for it seemed that Queen Catherine was barren; my mother had died in the Catholic faith and my father leaned strongly toward it; and the English were determined never to accept a Catholic king.

  I learned too how the King was exasperated by my father’s attitude toward religion. But my father was a good man, an honest man; he could not deny his faith; he was like one of the martyrs who suffered so much during their lifetimes and were so revered after their deaths. He would have died for his faith—or lose a crown for it. People might say he was a fool. That may have been from their point of view, but he was a good fool.

  He had been told that, if he tried to bring his children up in the Catholic faith, they would be taken from him; and that was why Bishop Compton had been sent to teach us.

  I was quite pleased that a more serious attitude was being taken about our education. It was true enough that we were never overworked, and if we did not wish to attend lessons there was no compulsion to do so. Anne hardly ever sat for them; that was why in later years she had to exert herself just to write a letter. I was different. I liked to learn, and I was happy to work with my French tutor who was delighted with my response.

  Both Anne and I learned to paint and our drawing master caused a certain amount of amusement when he arrived, for he was a dwarf, only three feet ten inches high, and he had a wife who was more or less the same size as he was. He was an excellent miniature painter, very dignified and always behaved with very special decorum.

  I liked Richard Gibson and enjoyed the lessons with him. He was well known throughout the court and he and Mrs. Gibson were a most unusual pair. They were by no means young, having lived through the reign of my murdered grandfather and the days of Oliver Cromwell to the restoration of my uncle Charles. They were great favorites at court.

  They had had a wedding in my grandfather’s court, which had been celebrated in verse by the poet Waller. There had been a banquet in honor of them which the King and my grandmother Queen Henrietta Maria had attended. People marvelled at them, for they must have been nearly sixty years old at this time and they had had nine children, all of whom were of normal size.

  Even Anne enjoyed drawing under Richard Gibson’s tuition.

  And eventually my father became reconciled to the fact that the King had undertaken the education of his daughters.

  THE YEAR AFTER MY MOTHER’S DEATH, baby Catherine and my little brother Edgar, who had been ailing all his brief life, both died. My father was very sad. He had suffered so many misfortunes.

  He took a special delight in being with Anne and me, and our continued good health was a great comfort to him.

  Edgar’s death had made a difference and, growing up as I was, I sensed it. Something had changed. Anne and I were more important, especially myself. It was clear why.

  Queen Catherine, poor lady, continued to be barren. My father, next in line, had lost his wife and there were no remaining sons of the marriage; and after him came his daughters.

  There was a certain amount of whispering about my father’s preoccupation with the Catholic faith, which grew stronger rather than diminished.

  I once heard someone say: “If he must be so, why let the whole world know it?”

  Because he was an honest man, was the answer. There was no deceit in him.

  The people were uneasy and that made them forget his glorious naval victories which at the time had made him so popular. They wanted my father to understand that they would never accept a Catholic king on the throne of England.

  It was for this reason that Anne and I must not only observe all the ceremonies of the Church of England, but we must be seen taking part in them.

  Oh yes, the death of my mother, followed by that of little Edgar, had given Anne and me a new importance.

  And particularly myself.

  I WAS ELEVEN YEARS OLD NOW and learning more every day. I was not excluded from the gossip as I had been; and there was a good deal of it among the girls of the household. Sarah Jennings was very interested in what was happening—and so was Elizabeth Villiers. I think they were both rather excited to be in such a household as ours which was really right in the center of affairs, although it might not seem so to us who were living in it.

  Of course, a certain amount of attention would always be given to the heir of the throne, but for a long time it had been thought th
at the King would certainly have a son. He had enough illegitimate ones—lusty at that—to prove that the inability to get an heir was not due to him. It was ironical that he could beget them on so many of his fair subjects and fail with his queen. It seemed to be one of the perversities of life. Poor Queen Catherine! I can sympathize with her now.

  Intrigue was rife. The Queen could not produce the heir: the Duke of York was suspected of being a Catholic. There was, of course, the Duke of Monmouth. Illegitimate, yes, but a Protestant and young and handsome, a favorite with the people. Surely he could produce healthy sons. An illegitimate Protestant would be preferred to the true heir who was a Catholic.

  That was the opinion at the time and I was not unaware of it.

  It changed the attitude of the girls. They were more free with their gossip. Elizabeth Villiers was particularly watchful of Anne and me. Anne was completely obsessed by Sarah Jennings. It was always “Sarah says …” or “Sarah doesn’t do it that way,” “I must ask Sarah.” Sarah had Anne’s heart and mind, it seemed. And there was I, with my dear friend Anne Trelawny. Nor had I made a confidante of any of the Villiers girls, although there were six of them.

  I did not realize until later that Elizabeth would have liked to have the same dominance over me that Sarah had over Anne, for it was just possible that I might become a very important person indeed.

  She was jealous of me. I understand a great deal now which I did not at that time. She would have loved to be in my position! I think Elizabeth Villiers wanted power beyond anything else. I know now what lay behind that intent gaze which I had often found fixed upon me. She was thinking: this girl, this stupid creature, if events shape as they may well do, could be Queen of England one day. And I, brilliant, clever, capable Elizabeth Villiers, will be nothing … or someone of comparatively little importance—perhaps—if I am lucky—in her household.

  That would have been galling to someone of Elizabeth Villiers’s nature. There were times when she tried to win my favor, but there were others when her envy got the better of her good sense and she sought to wound me.

  She knew of the love between myself and my father and she tried to undermine it. She was well aware that to me my father was the hero of many naval victories, the man who had fought the flames during the Great Fire of London, the loving father adored by his children; and she wanted to show me that my idol was not all I thought him; and in her way, which was subtle enough for a young and innocent girl of my age, she set about doing it.

  It was when we were all together at one of our sewing sessions that she began to talk about someone named Arabella Churchill. It was the first time I had heard the woman’s name mentioned.

  “It really is most scandalous,” said Elizabeth. “How can she be so brazen? This is the third, and all born out of wedlock. A boy this time, they say, and healthy. These children always are. Is not fate unkind? Sons of a marriage die one after another while the little bastards live on.”

  “And they say she is by no means beautiful,” said Anne Villiers.

  Elizabeth laughed. “Well, some like them that way. She has other attractions doubtless.”

  Henrietta Villiers asked: “Is it true that her legs were the great attraction?”

  “Yes indeed,” replied Elizabeth. “She had an accident in the riding field and her legs were very much in evidence. They happened to be seen by a certain person … and he fell in love with them.”

  “With a pair of legs!” giggled Henrietta.

  I was only half listening. I supposed this was another of the King’s amours. They included court ladies, actresses from the theaters, women of all sorts and classes. This Arabella Churchill would be one of a crowd. I always felt uneasy when they discussed the King’s morals. After all, he was my uncle. He knew that there was gossip about him but he was just amused. He was very good-tempered.

  I heard Anne Villiers saying: “She is very tall and nothing but skin and bone—not good-looking at all.”

  “Only a magnificent pair of legs,” said Elizabeth, raising her eyes to the ceiling in an expression of wonder. “Yet she inspired a personage.”

  Sarah said that there was so much beauty at court that perhaps it was refreshing to find a lack of it.

  “The gentleman concerned,” went on Elizabeth, glancing at her sisters, several of whom could not restrain their giggles, “is said to have an odd taste in women.”

  I was getting more perceptive. The pauses and the exchanged glances startled me. I thought suddenly, I believe they are talking about my father. I could not believe this though. This Arabella Churchill had had three children. When the first would have been born, my mother was alive. It was nonsense. But the suspicion remained.

  I said to Anne Trelawny when we were alone: “Arabella Churchill’s lover? Who is he?”

  I saw the flush in her face and she did not answer.

  I said: “Was it my father?”

  “In a court like ours these things happen,” she said uneasily.

  I could not forget that, while my mother was dying, he had been in love with Arabella Churchill’s legs. I discovered that her first child had been born in 1671—the year my mother had died—and now there was this one.

  I remembered my father’s sorrow over my mother’s death. How he had wept and seemed to care so much, and all the time he was making love with Arabella Churchill. And I had believed he was heartbroken by my mother’s death. How could he have been?

  Life was full of hypocrisy. People lied. They deceived. Even my noble father.

  Elizabeth Villiers had succeeded in what she had intended to do. Nor did she leave it there.

  She had a clever way of steering the conversation round to the way she wanted it to go. In the days of my innocence I believed that it happened naturally, but now I was beginning to see it differently. She was clever; she was subtle; she was five years older than I and when one is eleven that is a great deal.

  At this time her aim was to poison the relationship between my father and me. It may have been because she thought he might yet turn me into a Catholic and so jeopardize my way to the throne and, as my attendant, she would be without the benefits accompanying such a position. Or it might have been that, disliking me as she did, she could not bear that I should know such happiness from a love the like of which I imagine could never have been hers.

  When one of the courtiers began acting strangely and it was said that he was suffering from a bout of madness, Elizabeth remarked that he reminded her of Sir John Denham.

  One of the younger girls asked who Sir John Denham was.

  It was obviously what Elizabeth had expected, and she said quickly: “It was something which happened some time ago. It was very unsavory and perhaps best forgotten, though there will always be people to remember it.”

  “Oh yes,” said Anne Villiers. “Whenever Sir John’s name is mentioned, people will remember.”

  “Do tell us what happened,” begged Henrietta.

  And then I heard the story of Sir John Denham.

  It had started in the year 1666, just after the Great Fire. Sir John Denham had gone mad suddenly and thought he was the Holy Ghost. He even went to the King to tell him so.

  Henrietta and Maria Villiers giggled at the thought and my sister joined in.

  Elizabeth reproved them rather primly.

  “It is not a joke,” she said. “It was very serious and you should not laugh at the misfortunes of others.”

  “It was due to his wife, was it not?” said Anne Villiers. “He had married her when she was eighteen and he was a very old man. You can guess what happened. She had a lover.”

  Elizabeth was giving me a covert glance, so I guessed what was coming.

  “Sir John was so upset,” she went on, “that he went mad. And then she died. It was said she was poisoned. The people blamed Sir John at first. They gathered outside his house and called on him to come out that they might show him what they did to murderers. The people are fickle. When he gave his wife a fine
funeral and wine was served liberally to all the people who had come to see her buried, instead of attacking him, they said he was a good fellow and it must have been someone else who murdered his wife.”

  “Who?” asked Henrietta.

  “I really do not think we should talk of this,” put in Elizabeth. “It is not really a very pleasant subject.”

  “But I want to know,” said Henrietta.

  “You are not to …” Elizabeth made a great show of embarrassment, as though forcing herself to be silent.

  Sarah looked at her cynically. Sarah was more shrewd than the rest of us. That was why she and Elizabeth were so wary of each other. I wondered whether she would discuss the case of Sir John Denham with my sister when they were alone together. Anne might be too indolent to ask, but she seemed to be listening with interest; I supposed it would depend on whether Sarah wanted Anne to know.

  I did bring the matter up with Anne Trelawny. I trusted her completely and it was always a joy to talk over things with her, because she never tried to impose her will on mine.

  “Do you remember all that talk about Sir John Denham who thought he was the Holy Ghost?”

  “Oh yes,” said Anne reluctantly. “It happened a long time ago.”

  “Round about the time of the Great Fire.”

  “I thought they said she died the year after the Fire.”

  “She had a lover.”

  “They said so.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Oh, people will talk!”

  “Was it my father?”

  Anne blushed and I went on: “I guessed it was by the way Elizabeth Villiers talked.”

  “She’s a sly creature, that one. I had even rather have Sarah Jennings, though I must say she can be a trial, and I could well do without her.”

  “What happened? Was there a big scandal?”

  “I suppose you could call it that.”

  “And my father?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  I said: “I now know about Arabella Churchill. She is still with him, is she not?”