Young William himself told me about the incident of the stays. Mr. Hughes had said that if he would look like a general he would have to have stiff stays. The uniform demanded it. William was not very happy at the idea, but he was willing to try anything that was necessary for a soldier.
He wore the stays, which not surprisingly he found to be uncomfortable. The tailor was summoned by William. The boys surrounded him and threatened him with dire punishment for having made their commander uncomfortable and insisted that he go down on his knees and promise to make the stays less stiff.
The exploits of the young Duke never failed to amuse everyone and when I heard that he was to have a field day and had said he would be honored if the King attended in person, I rather timidly put the question to William, hoping that he might comply with the Duke’s wishes.
To my delight, and amusement, he agreed. He had quite an attachment to his little namesake and I knew he often wished that this was our son.
And so the day came. I shall always remember those little boys looking so quaint in their uniform, doing their drill, marching before the King. William did his part well, walking along the line to review them, young William proudly beside him.
The toy cannon was fired and everything went off with military precision. William declared himself content to be assured of the loyalty of the Duke’s men. He gave the little drummer two guineas because he played so loudly.
The parade over, young William stood before the King and said: “My dear King, you shall have both my companies to serve with you in Flanders.”
The King thanked him and gravely accepted the offer.
I had rarely seen William relaxed and pleasant. Little William had the power to charm us all.
That was a gloomy November. I could not rid myself of a feeling of foreboding. I was feeling listless and more unwell than ever before.
I was in Whitehall Chapel when John Tillotson, the Archbishop of Canterbury, was preaching a sermon. I had always liked Tillotson. He was a courteous and tolerant man. It was not very long ago that he had been appointed Archbishop — some three years, I believe — and during that time he and I had become good friends.
It was a shock, therefore, when, in the middle of his sermon, he suddenly stopped speaking, though it was clear that he was trying to, for his face twisted and his lips were alarmingly distorted. There was a tense silence throughout the chapel, and then suddenly the Archbishop slid to the floor.
He had had an apoplectic seizure and, within four days he was dead.
It was necessary to appoint another Archbishop of Canterbury and the choice should have been mine. I immediately thought of Stillingfleet, Bishop of Worcester, one of the most active men of the Church, handsome and vigorous, although not in such good health as he might have been.
Wiliam objected to Stillingfleet. He maintained he was not well enough for such responsibility and the arduous duties which would be expected of him. He would prefer Thomas Tenison and, of course, he had his way.
I was disappointed, but felt too tired to protest, but I suppose William would have had the man he wanted in any case.
However, Tenison was a good man; he had always taken a great interest in promoting the gospel. My father had said that he was dull and a man who had a horror of levity in any form. But perhaps that was not a fault in a priest.
Tenison was a popular choice, but I believed Stillingfleet would have been more so. There were many to remember that at the time of Nell Gwynne’s death, Tenison had preached a sermon in praise of her which, in view of the life she had lived, seemed not exactly fitting. Then it had transpired that she had left £50 in her will to the priest who would make her the subject of such a sermon when she died.
I dare say the £50 had played its part in Tenison’s willingness to preach that sermon, but I said that, in my opinion, he must have known of her repentance or he would not have been persuaded.
* * *
IT WAS CHRISTMAS of the year 1694 and William was in England. We were to spend the season at Kensington Palace, which I think had become William’s favorite of all our residences.
There would be as little ceremony as possible and I was glad of this, for I was feeling quite ill. I had a fit of the ague which I could not throw off. I knew in my heart that it was more than that. I was overcome with such listlessness that I had to force myself to keep aware of what was going on around me.
I was very anxious that none should know how I was feeling, but it was growing more and more difficult to disguise.
I was not old. I had been thirty-two last birthday. I could not forget Tilotson’s sudden death. I would dream of him as he had stood in the pulpit and that sudden horror when his mouth twisted and he became incoherent. I remembered the bewilderment which followed.
It was terrible that death could come so suddenly without warning.
It was growing increasingly difficult for me to hide the state of my health. I was confined to my apartments for a few days, and of course rumors immediately began to be circulated.
I was so relieved when I felt well enough to venture out and I was amazed at the tumultuous welcome I received in the streets.
Young William came to see me. I was always delighted to be visited by him. His coming lightened my spirits.
He talked for a little about his soldiers, and then suddenly he said: “The people love you dearly, Queen. My servant Lewis Jenkins has been most unhappy because of your illness.”
“The people have always been good to me,” I said.
“He saw you riding in the park. He came back and looked so pleased that I asked him what good fortune he had had. He laughed and said, ‘Your Grace, I have seen the Queen. She is well again.’ I said, ‘I am glad of that with all my heart.’ Then Lewis took his hat from his head and cried: ‘The Queen is well again. Oh, be joyful!’ ”
He looked at me very strangely then and seemed suddenly unlike a child — more like a wise old seer. His eyes looked beyond me, as though he did not see me. It was a strange moment.
He went on: “I said to Lewis Jenkins, ‘Today you say “Oh, be joyful!” Soon you may be saying, “Oh, be doleful.” ’ ”
There was a deep silence in the room, and I thought I heard a strange rushing of wings. It was as though the Angel of Death was passing overhead.
William had become himself — precocious, it was true, but a child again.
He did not attempt to explain his strange words. Indeed, it was as though he were unaware of having said them.
He went on to talk about his “men” and a new parade he was planning. He hoped the King would come to receive the honors he was intending to pay him.
I sat still.
I knew that death was close.
THE LAST REQUEST
My return to health was short-lived. Within a few days I was confined to my apartment. There was concern and people were praying for me in the churches.
Archbishop Tenison was often with me. He was a good man and a great comfort to me in those days.
I had known from the moment young William had said those strange words to me that I had not long to live. There was a feeling of unreality all about me.
My father was constantly in my thoughts. I kept going back over those happy days. There were times when I blamed myself. I had had to choose between them. Dr. Ken, Dr. Hooper, all those who had guided me, who had inspired me with the desire to lead a Protestant life, who had instilled in me the virtues of being a good submissive wife, had led the way. But it is also written “Honor thy father.” I had wanted to be a good wife, but a good daughter too ... a good daughter to the best of fathers.
But life had ordained that my duty toward one was my betrayal of the other.
Was anyone ever put in such a position?
I wished I could go to my father. I wished I could explain how it had happened. I think he understood a little but his letters had shown me the depth of his wounds. And William? What had I been to him? An easy way to a crown. And what had the
realization been? He was not a happy man. Poor William, I could feel sorry for him.
And then sudden fierce anger came to me. I had brought him the crown. I, the Queen, beloved of the people, had been submissive to a man who had never been faithful to me through all the years of our marriage.
How soon had his passion for Elizabeth Villiers begun? Before we left for Holland? Almost certainly immediately afterward.
I had been the one with whom he must do his duty. I was the one to whom he must cling for all those years.
And for this, I had betrayed my father, for the sake of a man who had never loved me, never wanted me except for what I could bring him, a man who had been unfaithful to me throughout our married life.
If he had been such as my uncle Charles or my father it would have been different. Women had been a way of life to them, and they had always been good and kind to their wives, asking only this one concession. But Elizabeth Villiers had been his only mistress. There had been whispers that he had dallied with Anne Bentinck, but I did not believe that. The four of them, Elizabeth, William and the Bentincks had been close friends because Anne was Bentinck’s wife and Bentinck was the closest of William’s associates.
It hurt more perhaps because he could be faithful, but not to me. I had been the foolish child whom he must take because of a treaty, the tearful bride who had in the beginning been unable to hide her disgust for him and her dislike of the match. So he turned to Elizabeth Villiers.
They had sold me into marriage. My father had hated it and he had tried to save me, but it had been beyond his power to do so.
Could I blame William altogether? Yes, I did. He had never been kind, never understanding; he had always been brusque, insisting on domination. And I was the Queen, the one the people wanted, the one they loved. “Oh, be joyful.” “Oh, be doleful.”
I sat down to write to him.
I said I was going to die. I told him that I had suffered a great deal through his liaison with one of my women. There was nothing he could do now to atone for his neglect of me, but for the sake of his mortal soul, I wanted him to repent of his adultery and give up Elizabeth Villiers. I should not be here to know whether he respected my last wish, but for the sake of his own salvation, I hoped he would.
I sealed the letter.
Then I sat there, thinking of Elizabeth Villiers — her air of superiority, her contempt for me, her sly squinting eyes, and all I had suffered through her.
I wished I did not hate her as I did. I should be thinking of my own sins rather than those of others.
If I could go back, how should I act? I could not be sure. But one cannot go back in life and say, “There was the turning point.” There is no quick turn in the path along which Fate has chosen one shall go.
Archbishop Tenison came to see me. I could see that he was aware of the deterioration in my health.
“I have been writing a letter to the King,” I said.
He looked surprised, no doubt wondering why I should write when he was here and I could speak to him.
“I am entrusting it to you,” I went on. “I want you to give it to him when I am dead.”
“Your Majesty,” he protested with that false note of disbelief which people used to deny they are aware of something which must be obvious.
I lifted my hand. “You will do this for me, Archbishop?”
“I am at Your Majesty’s command. Will you join me in prayer?” We prayed and I asked forgiveness for my sins.
* * *
EARLY THIS MORNING I saw the spots which were beginning to appear on my body. The dreaded smallpox has come to Kensington. I am certain now that death is close.
I lay down my pen. There are certain matters I must put in order, for there is little time left to me now.
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The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II Page 30