I sent off the letter by a messenger I could trust, impressing on him its urgency and that there must be no delay in delivering it to my father’s hands and his alone.
The next morning Elizabeth left.
It was only then that I realized the enormity of what I had done, and I waited in trepidation for William’s return.
HE WAS AWAY FOR A FEW DAYS ONLY. I saw him the day after and, to my amazement, there was no difference in his attitude toward me.
I waited. He would soon discover what had happened, for there would be several who knew that I had sent Elizabeth on an errand to England. I was very nervous, wondering how I could ever have acted so daringly.
A week passed without there being any mention of her. Could it be that he had not yet discovered her absence? In that case, the relationship between them could not have been so strong. Perhaps I had been over-rash, jumped to conclusions.
Another week had gone by and still nothing was said of her departure. None of my ladies mentioned it. Of course, they knew I had sent Elizabeth out of the country. They would understand and they usually knew as much about my affairs as I did myself.
One day Jane Zulestein came to me in a state of some excitement.
She said: “Your Highness, I saw Elizabeth Villiers today.”
“You saw her?” I cried. “Where?”
“In the palace. She was walking quickly. She had a scarf about her head so that it was not easy to see her face, and she was walking with her head down and hurriedly. She was going into the Bentincks’ apartments.”
“You must have been mistaken,” I said.
“No, Your Highness, I was certain of it.”
I was shaken. Bentinck’s apartments, I thought. They were next to William’s and, of course, Elizabeth’s sister Anne was Bentinck’s wife. If it were possible that Elizabeth was in Holland, that was one place where she might go.
My father would surely have taken heed of my letter. He was angry about William’s treatment of me and, in any case, he would do everything to help me.
For a few days I assured myself that Jane had been mistaken. She must have seen someone who looked like Elizabeth going into the Bentinck apartments.
When a letter from my father arrived, I understood what had happened.
He had been awaiting the arrival of Elizabeth. I could rest assured that, had she come, she would not have been allowed to return. The truth was that she had not come. He had had inquiries made and it transpired that, when she reached Harwich, and as she was stepping off the packet boat with her escort, she stopped and said she had left something behind and must go back to get it. The escort offered to go and retrieve the object but she assured him she must do this herself. She left him and that was the last he saw of her.
Further inquiries had been made and it was discovered that she must have slipped ashore unseen and caught another packet boat back to Holland.
It explained so much. I had been foolish to think I could outwit such a woman.
One of the Villiers sisters had recently married a Monsieur Puisars, son of the Marquis de Thouars, and they were living at The Hague. Elizabeth had stayed with them and from time to time she made visits to the palace to see William.
How clever they were! How devious! And how they must be laughing at my feeble attempts to frustrate them.
What was so strange about the matter was that William never mentioned it to me; and his attitude toward me had changed not at all.
WILLIAM AND MARY
About this time there came to Holland a man who was to have a great influence on me. I had reached a point in my life when I was very uncertain. I longed for a perfect marriage. I admired William in many ways but I had been bitterly hurt by his ill-treatment of me. I did not altogether understand my feelings for him; they were mixed and muddled. For so long in my life I had made an idol of my father. And now that image was crumbling. I was blaming him for the friction between my native and my adopted countries. I was lost in a wilderness. I needed guidance and Gilbert Burnet came along to give it.
Burnet was a brilliant man—a master of Greek and Latin, and a student of civil and feudal law. His father had determined he should have a career in the Church and he went through a course of divinity.
He had had an adventurous life before he came to us and his wide experiences had taught him tolerance.
He was a most unusual man, particularly considering his calling. He was tall, his eyes were brown, his brows thick and almost black; and he was a merry man in spite of his serious dedication.
He was even welcomed by William, because he did not approve of the way life was moving in England, and he regarded William and me as the next monarchs.
My father, he believed, was walking straight into a disaster of his own making; and he thought William and I should be ready when the time came for us to take over. He thought this could not be far off. This man helped to draw William and me together, and he made me understand William more than I ever had before. And I think he had the same effect on William in regard to me.
Gilbert Burnet had the gift of speaking of serious matters in a jocular way, yet in a manner not lessening their importance.
To my amazement, through my conversations with him, I discovered that I had quite an understanding of theology, for during my time of seclusion, I had read a great deal. Now I could discourse with knowledge and perception on these matters, and this impressed Gilbert. He imparted this to William and I detected a new respect toward me from my husband—almost imperceptible but still there.
My father, of course, was not very pleased that Gilbert Burnet should be at The Hague, and there ensued a long correspondence between us about this.
My father was more eager than ever that I should become a member of the Catholic Church. It seemed almost certain now that I should inherit the throne and he could not bear to think of his successor undoing all that he had done to promote Catholicism in England.
His folly alarmed and exasperated me. I loved him as I ever had and always would, but he seemed to me, in the light of all I was learning from Gilbert Burnet, to be acting like a wayward child.
My letters to him began to surprise me. I had for so long thought of myself as a poor scholar. I had seemed less so when compared with my sister Anne, of course, but even so I had never been erudite. Now I was amazed by the ease with which I could express my feelings in those long letters to my father who, although he did not agree with my views, complimented me on my erudition.
I talked a great deal to Gilbert Burnet. During this time I was missing Anne Trelawny very much. I had been accustomed to talk over my feelings with her, and there was no one else in whom I could confide as I had in Anne. With Gilbert Burnet it was different. Of course, we did not talk gossip as Anne and I had frequently done and it is surprising what can be learned from gossip; but I did find my discussions with Gilbert illuminating and a solace.
He made me understand that the break with Rome which had been the great event of the last century had come about through a king’s carnal desires, but it had brought great good to the nation. England must never return to the domination of Rome; and it was clear that it was along that path that my father was trying to lead the country.
Reading between the lines of my father’s letters, I could see how wild his dreams were. He did not work toward his goal as William did—quietly, deviously, keeping his secrets; he did not plan with his mind but with his heart. He was fervently religious. I thought of my great grandfather, King Henri IV of France, the Huguenot, who changed his religion for the sake of peace. He must have been rather like my Uncle Charles in more ways than one. “Paris is worth a mass,” he said, and for that the people accepted him and his great reign began.
My father was a good man, an honest man; and why should I criticize him for that? I had loved him so dearly, but I could not help deploring what he was doing to his country. Then I would see Jemmy’s head … that beautiful head which I had loved—bowed and bloody on the block; I could see my cousin as h
e pleaded with my father who had turned aside and left him to his fate.
My emotions were in turmoil.
It need not have been so, I kept saying to myself. What is a principle compared with the lives of people? I had read of the Spanish Inquisition and the torture and cruelty inflicted in the name of religion. Should we have that in England? No, never!
Gilbert advocated tolerance. He was right.
Meanwhile my father planned for me to be divorced from William that I might marry a Catholic husband. Then he planned that I should come to England and with my Catholic husband reign in that Catholic land which he had created. That should never be.
One day Gilbert came to me in some alarm.
“There is a plot to kidnap the Prince and take him to France,” he said. “Let us ask him to come to your apartments without delay. It will be quieter there. I want none to overhear this.”
William came. He greeted me with that mild show of affection which he had displayed since the coming of Gilbert, for whom he had a friendly word.
“Gilbert has disturbing news,” I told him.
William raised his eyebrows and turned to Gilbert.
“Your Highness,” said Gilbert, “is in the habit of riding on the sands at Scheveling for a little exercise in the evening.”
“That is so,” agreed William.
“You must not do it tomorrow.”
“I have arranged to do so. It is a favorite exercise.”
“Tomorrow your enemies plan to surround you. They will have a boat waiting to take you to France.”
William shrugged his shoulders. “I shall not allow them to do that.”
“You will be ill protected and they will be in force. Once they have you out of the country, they will not allow you to come back.”
“This is ridiculous,” said William. “Of course I shall not allow them to take me. I have work to do.”
“And Your Highness must be on hand to do it.”
I put my hand on William’s arm. “I want you to take the guards with you tomorrow,” I said.
He gave me a wry look. He could see the real concern in my face and I think he may have been touched, though he did not show that he was. Was he wondering why I should care what became of him after the way in which he had treated me? Many people would. I saw the corners of his lips turn up slightly.
“I think it is unnecessary,” he said.
“You must take the guards with you,” I entreated. “Please do.”
The expression on his face did not change as he turned to Gilbert and said: “Since my wife wishes it …”
Gilbert Burnet smiled and the outcome was that when William went riding on the Scheveling sands he took a bodyguard with him. It was fortunate that he did, for an ambush was lying in wait for him and made off with all speed when it was realized that the plan must have been discovered since he was accompanied by his guards.
Burnet’s warning had been timely and so had my request that William should take the guard.
This incident was an indication of my changing relationship with my husband. It also showed how far my father was prepared to go in order to get rid of William and replace him with a husband for me of his choosing.
The plan in itself made me angry. I did not wish to be buffeted from one marriage to another, to suit my father’s obsession. I was turning away from him and I could not explain how I felt about William, for I was not sure.
I LEARNED MORE ABOUT WHAT WAS HAPPENING in England and I could see that day by day my father was plunging deeper into disaster. He was determined to make England Catholic and the people were equally determined that he should not. Why could he not see what was happening? It appeared that he was adopting his father’s belief in the Divine Right of Kings. Had he forgotten that that had led to his father’s death?
Sir Jonathan Trelawny—a kinsman of Anne’s—was in conflict with him over the Declaration of Indulgence and was sent to the Tower. Seven bishops were on trial for seditious libel. In the Duchy of Cornwall they were singing:
And shall they scorn Tre Pol and Pen
And shall Trelawny die
Then twenty thousand Cornishmen
Will know the reason why.
These were pointers showing what was to come. Why could my father not see it? I believed he could and refused to. He was meant to be a martyr.
I was beginning to know him from this distance as I never had when I was near him. It was like looking at a painting. One must stand back to see the details clearly. Now, in place of that god-like creature was a weak man who must fall and take others with him because he would cling to a principle which had no roots in possibility.
He continued to write long letters to me, extolling the virtues of the Catholic faith. He was fanatically eager to carry me along with him.
He knew there was a Jesuit priest at The Hague—a certain Father Morgan—and he thought it would be edifying for me to meet him. He would be able to explain a great deal to me, said my father.
I saw immediately how dangerous this could be. If I were to invite the Jesuit to come to me, it would be commented on. I knew how such news traveled. It would be assumed that I was leaning toward my father’s faith.
Did he know this? Perhaps. He would do anything to make a Catholic of me and free me from my marriage so that I might make an alliance with a man of his choosing—an ardent Catholic, of course.
I felt angry with him. I had been forced into marriage in the first place, though I could not blame my father for that. I would make my own decision about my religion. I did not want to be freed from my marriage, though a few years earlier I might have welcomed it. But not now.
My father must know that if I were to see Father Morgan, it would be tantamount to a declaration that I was seriously considering the Catholic faith.
“I certainly would not see him,” I wrote.
I had an opportunity of speaking to William about it.
I saw the approval in his face and I felt a certain pleasure because I had won it.
“You are right,” he said. “You must not see this man.”
“Assuredly I will not,” I told him. “I hope there will be no rumors of a possible meeting. I thought I might write to someone of authority in England in case there have been rumors that this meeting might take place. Perhaps a bishop or archbishop to state my adherence to the Church of England.”
“Pray do that,” said William. “It is right that you should.”
Excited by his approbation, I wrote a letter to William Sancroft, the Archbishop of Canterbury, in which I set down my feelings, saying that although I had not had the advantage of meeting him, I wished to make it known to him that I took more interest in what concerned the Church of England than myself, and that it was one of the greatest satisfactions I could have to hear that all the clergy showed themselves to be firm in their religion which made me confident that God would preserve the Church since He had provided it with such able men.
In view of the conflict which had existed between my father and the Church of England, this was clearly saying on whose side I stood; and in view of my position as heir to the throne, it was of great significance.
When I showed the letter to William his smile was so warm that I fancied he looked at me with love. All it meant, of course, was that he no longer feared my defection to my father. I had now placed myself firmly beside William.
ONE DAY WHEN GILBERT BURNET WAS TALKING TO ME, he said suddenly: “It is not natural in a man to be subservient to his wife.”
I agreed. “It is clear from the scriptures that a woman should obey her husband,” I said.
“That is so,” went on Gilbert. Then he paused for a while before he went on: “It would seem from events in England that the day of reckoning is not far off.”
“What do you think is going to happen?” I asked.
“I think they will not have King James much longer.”
“They must not harm him,” I said. “Perhaps he will go into a monastery.�
�� I paused, thinking of his mistresses. How could he live in a monastery? Where would he go? Exile in France? Wandering from place to place, as he had done in his youth, to the end of his days? As long as they did not harm him … I thought. To lose his kingdom will be grief enough.
I was melancholy thinking of his fate. Then Gilbert roused me from my gloom.
“There is much dissatisfaction,” he said. “It has to be. He must be aware of that. Everywhere it is felt that he cannot go on.”
I shivered. Gilbert looked at me intently.
“I trust Your Highness is prepared.”
“There has been so much said of it,” I replied. “So many implications, I could not be unaware of the possibility of its happening.”
“If the King were deposed, Your Highness would be Queen of England—the Prince your consort.”
Now I saw where he was leading and I said: “The Prince would be beside me. We should stand together.”
“Not equally, Your Highness, unless you made it so.”
I was silent and he went on: “I wonder whether the Prince could take such a minor position. He is a man of action—a ruler.”
“He has a claim to the throne,” I said.
“There are others before him.”
“Anne,” I said. “Her children.”
“It would be in Your Highness’s hands. If you were to declare the Prince King … it would have to come from you … your consent could elevate him from consort to King. As King he would rule beside you. And as you say, he has some right, but you would be the undoubted Queen by reason of inheritance. You would have to give your word that the Prince should be King and you the Queen, to rule together. Would you be prepared to do this?”
I felt a glow of pleasure. I said: “I would not want to rule without him. I should need him. He is my husband. I should be Queen but of a certainty William should be King.”
I could see how pleased Gilbert was and it occurred to me that he had wanted to say this for some time and was relieved that he had achieved the result he wanted. I guessed, too, that William had prompted him to discover my feelings in the matter.
Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 10] Page 20