Royal Harlot

by Susan Holloway Scott

  “You know the first dance tonight will be a sarabande, Your Grace?” I asked. The sarabande was an elegant, dignified dance with steps in triple time, much favored by the Iberians and thus by the queen. It was often danced to begin the evening, because the intricate steps displayed the ladies and gentlemen to advantage, and because the dance’s complexity was better undertaken before too much wine had been drunk by the participants—the opposite reasoning behind saving raucous country dances for after midnight. I wished His Grace to be aware of the sarabande’s challenges, and withdraw now if he’d any doubts.

  “It’s a difficult dance to execute well, Your Grace,” I continued, “particularly before so large a crowd, and I would be perfectly happy to be your partner later in the evening if—”

  “No!” he exclaimed plaintively, then realized how rude that must have sounded. “That is, Lady Castlemaine, nothing could make me abandon the pleasure of being your partner. Besides, I’ve been practicing the sarabande specially with my dancing master, to be ready.”

  “I am honored, Your Grace, and impressed,” I said, delighted by his unwitting guilelessness. “Most gentlemen would not take that effort.”

  He pressed his hand over his heart, a courtly gesture undermined by fingernails gnawed to their quick.

  “My lady,” he said solemnly, “I am not most gentlemen.”

  “How very true.” I smiled warmly at him, then glanced over his shoulder toward the gallery. The musicians were taking their seats, settling themselves and their instruments with a final tuning. As the first couple, we could take our places at any time.

  “Your Grace,” I said, offering him my hand. “Whenever you please.”

  He did not so much take my hand as seize it as his prize, as if ready to urge me onto a steeplechase instead of a sarabande. Gently I reined him back to a more reasonable pace as we entered the room and went to the center. As other couples fell in behind us, I could hear the startled murmurs rippling through the crowd. There was no place like this court for understanding all the delicacies of order and precedent, and having one of the great Christmas balls opened by the king’s mistress and the king’s bastard was a sight ripe for endless remark.

  I’d taken care to dress for my role, too. I wore a gown of red velvet, embroidered overall with twisting vines of silver threads that caught the candlelight, and around my throat I wore my lover-king’s new Christmas gift to me, a large Venetian cross set with cabochon rubies and hung from a strand of pearls as thick around as my little finger. As was his custom, Charles had let me choose among the treasures that had been given to him by various other rulers and lords seeking favor, a system that offered me the finest jewels in Europe.

  Now I sought, and found, Charles in elegant black and sitting in his tall-backed armchair, his expression indulgently bemused by the small, scandalous spectacle he’d created. I touched my fingers to the ruby-studded cross so he’d be sure to see I’d worn it, and he nodded, pleased to see me gratified. I’d wear it later with nothing else, to please him more.

  Beside him, the queen was stony-faced and glowering at my having usurped both her place in the first dance, and with her husband’s son. Near Charles’s chair stood a genial Arlington, while beside the queen was Lord Clarendon, supported by a walking stick to ease the pain of his gouty foot and the equal agony of his disapproval—for even in the midst of the court’s yuletide festivities we were incapable of setting aside our politics.

  “You know that every eye in the room is on us, Your Grace,” I said softly, giving his hand a small squeeze of reassurance. “Yet I care not, because you are my partner.”

  His cheeks colored, the dear. “That’s what I’m supposed to say, my lady, not you.”

  But then the music began and he was saved from having to make more conversation. We stepped, and spun, and paused and turned and stepped again, my skirts fanning out against his legs. I was impressed by how well he did, keeping every movement across the sanded floor with surprising grace. He truly had been toiling with his dancing master to do so well, though his fixed smile betrayed how carefully he was counting the measures so not to blunder. By the time the dance was done, his face was flushed from his exertions, but he was also close to crowing with pride, the happy young cockerel.

  I curtseyed my thanks to him as applause rippled through the hall. At once the musicians began the introduction to the next dance, and another set of couples began to assemble themselves on the floor behind us.

  “I thank you for that honor, Your Grace,” I said with a smile, and began to turn away to take my place with his father.

  But Monmouth seized my hand again, unwilling to give me up so soon. “A word before you go, my lady?” he begged urgently, tossing his black hair back from his eyes. “In private?”

  “Very well, then,” I agreed, though I couldn’t begin to guess what that word might be. “A moment.”

  Before I’d finished agreeing he was pulling me through the others and into the narrow hallway that led to the long path to the kitchens. His hand was endearingly moist with nervousness. Around us servants were hurrying great covered platters of food into the hall, but Monmouth cared only for me, drawing me to a halt as soon as we were out of sight of the other guests.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I cannot stay away from your father His Majesty for long,” I said, although I was entertained by his desire for such privacy. “Pray, what is this single word you so wished me to hear?”

  “Only this, my lady,” he said, and boldly grabbing me about the waist, he kissed me, kissed me with considerable enthusiasm and not a hint of skill or finesse. Startled, I flailed with equal clumsiness in his arms, shoving against his stripling chest, yet still he clasped me tight. He was stronger than I expected, his youthful body already honed by the same manly sports that so pleased his father, making him as difficult to push aside as his sire. He ground his mouth against mine to thrust his greedy tongue within, and my single thought was of being violated thus by a large, unruly young dog. And oh, how he’d terrify that poor twelve-year-old bride!

  Yet at the same time the untrammeled intensity of his assault was vastly flattering to a lady such as I, twenty-two and more than eight years his senior. It was . . . exhilarating. What he lacked in experience he’d traded for eagerness, and I also could not put from my thoughts the titillating realization that he was Charles’s son.

  “More care, Your Grace, more care,” I whispered as I finally managed to turn my face away from his lips. “Amour is not a race to be won with breakneck haste. A lady appreciates being coaxed, and wooed.”

  His face was flushed and his eyes were dark with longing, and I could feel his young heart thudding in his chest as if in fact he’d already finished half that race. I was wise to slow his pace, else he would shame himself in his breeches, or worse, on my petticoat.

  “Like this, sweet,” I said, brushing my lips lightly over his before I gently increased the pressure. “And like this.”

  At once his kiss was checked, the improvement immediate. The thought that I was teacher to so apt a pupil delighted me, and with more daring I took one of his hands from my waist and placed it lightly over my breast. Instinctively his fingers curved over the swelling flesh that my tight-laced bodice raised high for adulation, and instantly he forgot everything I’d taught him, lapsing back to the sloppy impetuosity of before.

  But now I was roused by this impulsive lark, too, and answered his passion in kind, slipping my arms around the back of his neck to steady myself as I arched wantonly against him. He pushed me back against the wall, the wood panels pressed into the small of my back. His prick was hard in his breeches, a goodly size and ready for play. I wondered if he’d yet had any woman of flesh and blood, or only the ones that tumbled through his dreams as he slept.

  “Oh, my lady,” he groaned into my mouth, his voice taking that unfortunate moment to squeak upward. “My lady, I—”

  “James,” the king said sharply, “what is this?”

&nbs
p; The boy jerked away from me, breathing hard and standing uncertainly to one side as he waited for his father’s reproach.

  “Father,” he began. “Forgive me, Father, but—”

  “Go,” Charles said. “Leave us.”

  His head hanging more with relief than shame, Monmouth hurried away, leaving me alone with the king. Here in the shadows of the staircase, he was silhouetted with the light behind him, and I could not see his expression to judge his humor. How long had he been standing there? I wondered. How much had he seen of me and his son, or had he been watching, rather than seeing?

  “Sir,” I said softly, still pressed against the wall. I tipped my head back, my lips parted in invitation, and shifted my legs restlessly against one another.

  Without a word he was on me, hoisting my skirts high and entering me without any prelude. I was already ripe with wanting, and the edge of his anger made him take me so fast and hard against the wall that he lifted my feet from the floor, there within hearing of the sounds of the dancing and the servants and the laughter of his courtiers. He shuddered when he spent, his pleasure so great it racked his body, while I bit his shoulder in my passion, my teeth leaving a half ring of bruises on his skin through the heavy broacaille of his coat.

  “How was he?” he asked afterward as he fastened his breeches.

  “Not you.” I smiled as I let my skirts fall, relishing the sensation of his royal seed on my thighs, no matter with whom I danced this night.

  “As it should be, Barbara,” he said, and offered me his arm. “Now take care not to forget it.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON

  May 1 6 6 3

  “You are pleased with the painting, Master Lely?” I asked, my excitement growing as the artist led his assistants into my rooms. “You like it?”

  The two assistants carried the picture between them with great care, taking it to stand before the tall windows that overlooked King Street, where the light would be best. Framed and ready to be presented to the king as my gift to him for his thirty-third birthday at the end of the month, the painting was still covered for transporting, its face wrapped in a protective cloth like a bride with her beauty hidden behind a veil.

  “My lady, I cannot recall being more content with any picture,” the artist said proudly. “But then, how could it not be a masterpiece, with such a beautiful subject as yourself? My Lady Castlemaine, my muse?”

  “Oh, pish, Master Lely, we both know that’s idle nonsense,” I declared, coming to stand before the two assistants. “The real proof’s in the picture itself. Enough waiting, if you please! Show it to me properly, before I come pull that wretched cloth away myself.”

  The artist nodded cheerfully, by now accustomed to my ways after so many sittings together. We understood one another well: he claimed to be so inspired by my beauty that he’d begun putting my famously languid eyes on the face of every other woman’s portrait he painted. For my part, I favored him like no other artist with my custom, seeking to have my likeness preserved by his paintings and the engravings he printed and sold from them. But this portrait—ah, this portrait had been a true collaboration, and would do far more than that for us both.

  “As you wish, my lady,” he said, unfastening the cords that held the wrapping in place himself. “If you do not agree that this is a most rare and wondrous painting, my lady, then I’ll throw down my brushes in despair.”

  “Show me, then,” I ordered. “Show me.”

  He smiled, and bowed, and threw back the cloth like a curtain being drawn from a stage. I gasped and pressed my hands over my mouth in amazement. It was rare and wondrous, a work of beauty and of genius, too.

  It was a dual portrait, of me supporting my little son Charles beside me, and so tenderly drawn that it brought tears to my eyes. At Master Lely’s suggestion, we’d agreed to copy the same composition of mother and child that had been so prevalent among the old Italian painters like Raphael, with me seated and turned to hold my son—a pose only used to show the Madonna with the infant Christ. Likewise I’d purposefully left off my jewels and rich silks, and dressed myself more simply in a loose red robe to signify the Virgin Mother’s passion, draped with a blue cloak to show her role as Queen of Heaven. My head was demurely covered, my hair parted simply in the middle of my forehead; there was no mistaking that I was again with child, too, the eternal Mother. Even my son was painted in the tradition of the young Savior, naked save a white cloth around his loins, and his downy cheek pressed lovingly to my forehead.

  It was a beautiful painting, yes, but also a scandalous one. To show me as the Virgin and Charles’s bastard son as the infant Jesus would surely shock a good many persons. And yet as full of irony as it was, in a way the allegory made perfect sense. Wasn’t Charles the leader of the Anglican church, God’s own representative here on earth? And wasn’t I wed to another man who’d never fathered any children of his own with me, much as Mary had been with Joseph?

  I was sure that Charles would see all this, and more as well. He’d see the picture of me with our first son and great with our next as testimony not only to my devotion to him but to his own potency. Our son was the perfect image of him, with his dark eyes and black curling hair, undeniable proof that no matter if the queen proved barren, his progeny would continue on this earth. It was also a composition in the Romish tradition, for no Anglican worshipped the Holy Mother as feverishly as the papists.

  I’d noted well that the one thing about the queen that continued to impress Charles was her self-conscious piety; she attended to her services and prayer as many as three or four times a day— as good a way as any for passing her time, I suppose, considering how little the king spent with her. His mother was a fervid French Catholic as well, and had tried hard to woo her children to the faith, with the result that I knew Charles continued to have well-hidden leanings in that direction. As it was, he encouraged the most Romish side of the Anglican church, with music, singing, and art within the churches, and he stunned many of his subjects by kneeling to take the Sacrament. Therefore to intrigue and please him the more, I’d begun taking private instruction from a noted Jesuit whom Arlington had recommended to me, with the hope of eventual conversion. This painting was meant as a sign to Charles of the seriousness of my intention, another way of signifying how closely we two were bound.

  “You are pleased, my lady?” the artist asked with a touch of anxiety as he misread my silent appreciation of the picture. “You still believe it will make a suitable gift for His Majesty?”

  I smiled and clapped my jewel-covered hands in appreciation. “I am more pleased, Master Lely,” I said, “more delighted, more overjoyed by this picture than you can ever, ever know. His Majesty will appreciate it as no other gift.”

  He bowed again with clear relief, and I looked back once again at the painting. It was an excellent likeness, a gift only I could offer to Charles, a tribute to him as king, to me as his mistress and mother of his children, and to Master Lely’s talent. But most of all, it would set all of London talking in horrified, scandalized whispers.

  My smile widened, for I was pleased and content. For what more, really, could I ever hope to ask?

  In June, after a year of Clarendon’s shilly-shallying, I was finally granted a warrant as Lady of the Bedchamber to the queen. I was permitted a higher status within the court and granted the negligible income that came with the position. Most important, I was formally allowed to have lodgings in the palace—which, of course, I’d already had for some time, thanks to the king’s insistence.

  There was never really any question of me performing many actual services for the queen. The primary role of a Lady of the Bedchamber was to keep company with the queen, and, in theory if not practice, to be ready to guard her honor. While I took my appointed turns— divided among a dozen or so of us, all peeresses—accompanying her to her chapel, meals, and other events within the palace, the queen had no more wish for me to be in her intimate company than
I did desire to be there. She neither acknowledged my position with her husband, nor took note of the fact that I was great with his child. Nor did I taunt her with it, or mention Charles’s name in any but the most general way. In every way that mattered, I’d won. I could be gracious. Thus I held the title with little of the responsibility: a solution, I believe, that satisfied us both.

  But this triumph for me was swallowed up by a much larger misfortune at the same time. Charles had labored long on persuading Parliament to pass his Declaration of Indulgence, softening Clarendon’s restrictions against religious dissenters and keeping his own promises made through the Declaration of Breda. Yet to Charles’s irritation, Clarendon had fought back, marshaling support against the declaration. Clarendon encouraged the malcontents within Parliament who felt that Charles was a spendthrift king, squandering too much of the country’s resources on his own pleasures.

  It was obvious to all that Clarendon meant such charges as a direct attack at me, and to a lesser extent at the gentlemen like Arlington, Bristol, and Buckingham who shared the same views of tolerance. I was painted worse than the Great Whore of Babylon, leading the king by his cock to his doom and the country with him. I was portrayed by my rivals and in the newssheets as avaricious and grasping and a cross-tempered shrew, and though these slanders infuriated the king, there was little he could do to counter them.

  Worst of all, Clarendon’s supporters in Parliament made the passage of the declaration contingent upon the king’s funds voted for maintaining the court. By doing so, they effectively refused to give him money on which to live unless he withdrew the declaration. The days of an English king being free to rule as he chose and not be choked and tripped by the mean-spirited, small men in Parliament had died with Charles’s father. Humiliated, Charles was forced to agree to their terms and withdraw the declaration.

  Such a disaster made for a black, ill-tempered June, turned worse when Lord Bristol foolishly attempted to remove Clarendon from office. The articles of impeachment against the chancellor were too hastily drawn up and filled with illogical holes, so that the judges dismissed the case as having no merit or cause of treason, and further stated that Bristol had overstepped, for one peer could not legally impeach another. Bristol was banished for his behavior, and not only did this ugly scandal show the king and my political friends in an unfortunate light, but it also served to make Clarendon’s position stronger than ever.