Disgrace And Favour

by Jeremy Potter

  ‘Ever mindful of his duty to his sovereign lord,’ he stated without further preamble, ‘the Prince of Great Britain has instructed me to inform your Majesty that he is desirous of being of service to you. Knowing that your Majesty’s health requires constant recreation, he offers you his assistance in affairs of state.’

  ‘What’s that you say?’ The King sat upright abruptly, quivering like a bow-string.

  ‘I say that now the Prince has come of age he seeks to relieve Your Majesty of some part of the burdens of your great office.’

  ‘Would he snatch my crown from my head this very day?’

  ‘Nothing is further from his mind. The Prince’s loyalty is beyond doubt or dispute, but your Majesty has crowned him with your own hand. After yourself, he is recognized as the first in the kingdom. Yet he has no voice in its government.’

  ‘The art of kingship is not to be practised by one so young. I who was crowned in my cradle should know. Let him read my book which is addressed to him, and continue with his studies.’

  ‘The Prince would not presume to practise kingship while your Majesty lives, which he trusts to God will be for many years. His purpose is to learn the administration of government. The theories he has mastered after many months of study; his education can progress no further while he is excluded from all public business. As for his youth, there are others little older on whose advice your Majesty in his undoubted wisdom places much confidence. Are they more learned, better schooled then he?’

  The reference to Carr was pointed. Carey’s words had outdistanced his intent. The favourite’s obtuseness at learning was notorious. The King himself, renowned for his pedagoguery and hailed as the schoolmaster of the realm, had failed in his attempt to teach his page the rudiments of Latin.

  ‘So Henry is jealous of my Robin.’ James patted his Robin reassuringly on the thigh.

  ‘I bow to Your Majesty’s judgment,’ Carey replied, ‘but would have believed such feeling foreign to the Prince’s nature.’

  ‘The Prince’s nature,’ snapped Carr, ‘would be less foreign to his father if he kept better company.’

  ‘Is that shaft aimed at me, my lord?’ Carey inquired, glowering with the scowl he reserved for miscreants as vile as Geordie Bourne.

  ‘Peace, Sir Robert,’ the King intervened in haste. ‘Viscount Rochester’s just anger is slow to cool. He has not forgotten an embarrassment which you caused him, but he would cast no aspersion on your loyalty to ourself.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it. I have done Your Majesty what poor service I can. Is it then the officers of the Prince’s household at whom my lord points his finger?’

  ‘It is not, and I forbid you to pick a quarrel in your sovereign’s presence,’ the King replied, wagging his beard in admonishment. ‘I will not have my Robin duelling. If such remarks jar on your ears, you may advise my son to cease his association with the traitor Ralegh.’

  ‘I will convey your Majesty’s message to His Highness.’

  ‘You will also convey to him my loving command that he prepare himself for public duties through more attention to his books. You may withdraw.’

  Carey bowed and backed with every appearance of humility, but at the door he paused and spoke again. ‘His Highness charged me sternly not to return without a straight answer to his petition.’

  ‘What petition?’ demanded the King tetchily. He had begun to fondle his lordship and was disconcerted by Garey’s lingering ‘If there is a petition, where is it? You presented none.’

  ‘It is brief and inscribed here.’ Carey drew it from his pocket. ‘The Prince petitions that you appoint him to preside at your Council.’

  ‘Lord President of the Council!’

  The King took his hand from beneath his favourite’s lawn shirt and jumped to his feet in consternation. He tried to speak but could only splutter. Gradually he became tearful, and my lord of Rochester reluctantly opened his arms to provide consolation. ‘Robin, Robin,’ the King moaned when he had recovered his speech. ‘Who will rid me of this turbulent Prince?’

  Startled by the words, Carey could not tell whether he was serious or play-acting. The allusion would be lost on Carr, but not so the incitement.

  When the King had calmed himself, Carr begged to be excused and left the room.

  Seizing the opportunity, Carey advanced his arguments in support of the Prince’s petition. He laid emphasis on the political advanges to James in having his heir associated with measures which might prove unpopular. If Parliament had to be bullied and taxation raised, as head of the King’s Council the Prince would incur a share - perhaps a major share - of the odium. The words came easily to his lips, and Carey flattered himself that even a Florentine like Machiavelli could have reasoned no more persuasively. Yet he made little impression on James, who sat in a sulk, obstinately shaking his head.

  When Carr returned he brought with him a tall, studious, tight-mouthed companion whom Carey recognized. It was Overbury, and the moment he entered the room it became apparent that his was the will which prevailed. The King, despite his many follies, was as clever as any man who had sat on the throne of England, but Overbury was cleverer. Carr, in addition to his lack of brains, was gifted with no forceful character and Overbury’s was strong. Arrogantly, he took no trouble to veil his superiority, inclining his head curtly to the King and barely deigning to acknowledge Carey’s presence.

  With Overbury assuming charge, the petition was discussed at length in every aspect. At his insistence the King was forced to join in exploring the question and its implications, until he began to enjoy himself and delivered one of his learned discourses. Overbury was demanding, and Carey had to stand his ground as though before a Grand Inquisitor, being closely interrogated about the Prince’s ambitions, attitudes and intentions. He was not so absorbed in the argument, however, that he failed to notice the relationship between Overbury and Carr. Overbury’s attachment to the pretty young Robin, first seen at Norham, had not been dissolved. One look, one gesture made Carey sure of it - and sure that the King was aware of it too. Carr sat on the couch between them, taking no part in the discussion, and Carey wondered whether his mind was on either of them or on Frances Howard, or whether the great love of Carr’s all-embracing life was none other than Carr himself?

  After more than two hours of talk, while Carey made his final appeal to the King, Carr was led across the room by Overbury for a whispered conversation.

  ‘Jamie,’ he announced when he returned, ‘what has been argued has convinced me of the justice of Henry’s claim. I humbly beg that the petition be granted. Will you grant me permission to lay it before the Council?’

  The King could not hide his surprise. He squeezed his Robin’s hand affectionately and gave Overbury a grudging glance. ‘When did I last refuse you a request?’ he mumbled.

  ‘If the Earl of Salisbury had not departed,’ said Overbury to Carey as they retired together, ‘the whole matter could have been settled here without delay.’

  ‘I compliment you,’ Carey replied. ‘You have succeeded at court without my aid.’

  Overbury glanced at the closed door behind them before he answered. ‘What I have accomplished,’ he declared, ‘is but a beginning.’ Carey could tell truth from falsehood: he knew what reliance to place on the word of a Carr. His mission had failed.

  A week later Overbury wrote on behalf of Carr to inform him regretfully that the Earl of Salisbury, jealous of the growing power of younger men, had warned the Council of the dangers of a divided government and the folly of investing a son with the authority of his father. The Earl had carried a majority of the Council with him. The King, despite the pleadings of Carr and of Overbury himself, would therefore have no choice but to reject the petition.

  The Earl wrote to the Prince the same day. He deeply regretted to inform His Highness that, owing to his own infirmity, Viscount Rochester’s influence was now in the ascendant on the Council. On Sir Thomas Overbury’s advice Rochester had publicly supp
orted the petition while privately opposing it. It was the King’s favourite who had frustrated the Prince’s design. Carey advised the Prince that on this occasion he should believe them both.

  Barely a month later the Earl of Salisbury was dead, and the long rule of the Cecils at an end. He had travelled to Bath for a cure and died while returning to London. He was not yet fifty, a victim of greed, debauchery and loyal service to the Crown. Carey made a comparison with himself. He was older, poorer and out of favour, but alive.

  While the body lay still unburied, the jockeying for place began. Frances Howard’s grasping father, the Earl of Suffolk, secured the prize of the Lord Treasurership, but the post of first minister remained unfilled. The King dithered indecisively between rival claimants. The Howards opposed Carr and Overbury, Carr and Overbury opposed the Howards. The Protestant party, led by the Archbishop of Canterbury, manoeuvred to prevent the appointment of one of the secret Catholics. The Spanish ambassador roused those in the pay of Spain to prevent the appointment of one of the Archibishop’s nominees.

  The Prince’s supporters believed that a brighter day had dawned. The disagreements raging among the rival groups must surely result in his advance to power. Carey wrote reminding Carr of his letter and rejoicing that there was now no obstacle to the appointment of the Prince as Lord President of the Council. He quickly discovered that the King’s fear of his son had been magnified. Without Cecil to restrain him, what mischief would his precocious Henry wreak in Council!

  Henry remained openly respectful of the King. His resentment was directed against Carr, his rival not only for the affections of his own father but also for those of Frances Howard. Refusing to live in London powerless, he exiled himself to Richmond. There he spent his days exercising his body furiously, endeavouring to rally his spirits by taxing his strength to the limit. One evening when Carey and others were teaching him a swimming stroke in the river and he thought himself likely to drown, he confided that life had nothing to offer him so long as his father was ruled by ‘that Scotch minion’. All night Carey lay awake brooding whether this was the Prince’s way of asking who would rid him of this turbulent favourite. The former warden’s strong right arm had not lost all its cunning with pistol and sword.

  Tireless and fretful, the Prince made himself ill. His face, which had been full-blooded with good health, became long and pinched with anxiety. Once cheerful and companionable, he grew moody and solitary. No one was able to dissuade him from practising his swimming alone after supper when his stomach was full and the water ice-cold with the coming of autumn. Afterwards he would walk unaccompanied beside the river towards Hampton Court or past Sion to Brentford, running the risk of a chill from the evening dews.

  Soon he was complaining of giddiness and heaviness in the head. His nose bled and he suffered attacks of fainting. When his doctor besought him to rest, he brushed the advice aside. His preparations for manhood were not to be interrupted, and he continued sweating at tennis, running at rings and tilting in full armour. Kings must strive for perfection, and in him England would have a king such as it had not seen since the last Henry. As a conqueror he would aim to outdo the second and fifth of England’s great kings of that name. His body must learn to match his spirit.

  Excluded from other affairs of state, he made his voice heard in those of family concern. All the influence he could command was employed in support of the marriage of his sister Elizabeth to the Protestant Elector Palatine rather than the Catholic Prince of Savoy. James humoured him in this: it suited his own purpose to do so. For the rest he must be content with contriving, where he could, the promotion of his adherents to higher office, and continuing to train his mind for the ardours and trials of the future. Was the perfect ruler not a fox no less than a lion? From Carey he took lessons in warfare and statecraft alike, worrying himself into trembling and feverish agues when perplexed.

  At last weakness forced him to take to his bed. In desperation his doctor consulted others. Between them they disputed the cause and nature of his illness and could not agree. One blamed over-exertion and excessive study; another diagnosed a malady common in all parts of the country at that season; a third detected the symptoms of a rare disease recently carried by land and sea from Hungary.

  After a few days the fever subsided, to be succeeded by listlessness. The Prince, his prodigious energy sapped, lay drowsy and inert day after day. Instead of his accustomed early rising and late retiring, he was not dressed before noon and returned to bed before sunset. His household watched him and their own expectations grow daily more thin and wan.

  Recalling the King’s intemperate words, Carey put Sir Thomas Chaloner and the physicians on their guard. At his insistence everything the Prince consumed was ordered to be tested and tasted for poison.

  When the Elector Palatine arrived in London for his wedding to the Lady Elizabeth, Henry gathered his strength to demonstrate approval of the alliance for which he had worked so hard. He travelled by carriage from Richmond to St James’s to receive the Prince who was to be his brother-in-law. The ceremony of welcome took place, but all the arrangements displeased him and a recurrence of feverishness forced him to withdraw prematurely. This, and his appearance, became the talk of London and Whitehall. Those hollow cheeks, those piercing eyes sunk in their sockets - what did they portend?

  Two days later, against all advice, he accepted a challenge at tennis from the Elector. His feet, once so nimble, dragged across the floor. His shots were weak and ill-directed. All the old skill and fire had gone. When the match was completed he retired from the court straight to his bedchamber, complaining of fatigue and a pain in the head.

  The next day was Sunday and the Prince remained punctilious in his attendance at public worship. After a night without sleep he rose and crossed the park for morning service at the Chapel Royal in Whitehall. So ghostly was the apparition that the King’s chaplain put aside his prepared sermon and took his text from the book of Job: ‘Man that is born of woman is of short continuance and full of trouble’. The Prince listened to the sermon without expression and returned at once to St James’s to bed. He vomited on the way and in the chill of November shivered uncontrollably with burning heat.

  That night he suffered agony. His thirst was unquenchable and his eyes found even the dull flicker of candlelight unbearable. The emollient clysters prescribed to bring relief induced violent diarrhoea combined with discharges from his throat of phlegm and putrified matter. In the morning the doctors settled round his bedside like roosting vultures.

  The crisis had reduced Dr Hammond, the Prince’s own attendant, to prayer. Sir Thomas Mayerne, the royal physician, had been ordered to St James’s by the King. To share the blame in the event of failure, he had sent for Dr Nasmyth, the surgeon of highest renown in the city of London. At Dr Nasmyth’s suggestion the eminent Dr William Butler was summoned from Cambridge. After consultation they were all four agreed on a purge of senna and rhubarb. This emptied the Prince’s stomach completely and made him too giddy to stand upright.

  By now rumours of poison were thick in the air, flying in whispers between cupped hands from St James’s to the courtyards and corridors of Whitehall. From the palace they passed to the great hall at Westminster and interrupted the course of justice. From there they sped through the mansions on the Strand, pausing at Denmark House, before running uphill to Paul’s cross and the gossips in Cheapside. From Cheapside they started on their journey by road to the rest of the realm and to the docks beside the Tower, whence ships carried them buzzing to Europe.

  Word soon reached the doctors of what was being whispered. They became afraid and reluctant to submit to the perils of responsibility. They demanded more consultants, which the Prince faintly but peremptorily refused.

  His body was now contorted with agonizing fits. His ears tingled and sang. His swollen tongue was seen to become black and dry. They weighed the blood from his nose. He had lost two ounces.

  When julep cordials failed to relie
ve him the physicians decided that more bleeding would be beneficial and took eight ounces from a vein in his arm. The blood ran thin and smelt putrid. The Prince became red in the face and short of breath. His restlessness at least was cured and for a few hours he endured his sufferings with patience and resignation.

  During the night he was attacked by delirium and imagined enemies. Calling for a rapier to defend himself, he leapt from his bed and would not return to it without being humoured. With the sword given him he cut through the bed curtains, declaring them to be Carr. Then he stabbed a chair, crying death to his father. To calm him the physicians ordered cocks and pigeons to be killed and the still warm bodies applied to his head.

  News of the delirium was kept from Whitehall, but it reached Denmark House in the morning. The Queen commanded Lady Carey to send for Sir Robert. He came dark-eyed from St James’s, where he was standing in attendance on the Prince day and night, helplessly witnessing the mortal struggle of his expiring hope.

  He found the Queen distracted and dishevelled. She had spent the night, his wife reported, weeping and praying in her private chapel.

  ‘Where is your valour?’ she demanded of Carey. ‘Are you content to watch by my son’s bed while they murder him?’

  ‘I am at your service. What would Your Majesty have me do?’

  ‘Bring him here to his mother.’

  ‘That would not be permitted. Your Majesty knows that I do not have the authority. But I will petition the King for you, if that is your wish.’

  ‘Would the King listen?’ asked Lady Carey to deter her mistress. ‘Or would he not rather suspect a conspiracy to convert his heir to Rome?’

  ‘The King wishes his heir dead,’ wept the Queen. ‘I distrust his physicians. If he cannot be removed we must send him a cure.’