The King's Favorite
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One - LONDON September 1661
Chapter Two - WESTMINSTER, LONDON August 1662
Chapter Three - MAYPOLE LANE, LONDON August 1662
Chapter Four - THEATRE ROYAL, LONDON March 1663
Chapter Five - THEATRE ROYAL, LONDON September 1663
Chapter Six - THEATRE ROYAL, LONDON September 1664
Chapter Seven - THEATRE ROYAL, LONDON March 1665
Chapter Eight - LONDON June 1665
Chapter Nine - LONDON February 1667
Chapter Ten - EPSOM, SURREY July 1667
Chapter Eleven - THEATRE ROYAL, LONDON January 1668
Chapter Twelve - LONDON April 1668
Chapter Thirteen - BAGNIGGE WELLS September 1668
Chapter Fourteen - NEWMARKET, SUFFOLK April 1669
Chapter Fifteen - WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON May 1669
Chapter Sixteen - NEWMAN’S ROW, LONDON April 1670
Chapter Seventeen - NEWMAN’S ROW, LONDON September 1670
Chapter Eighteen - BUCKINGHAM HOUSE, LONDON November 1670
Chapter Nineteen - LONG ACRE, NEAR ST. GILES FIELDS, LONDON February 1671
Chapter Twenty - PALL MALL, LONDON March 1672
Chapter Twenty-one - THE STRAND, LONDON May 1673
Chapter Twenty-two - WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON May 1675
Chapter Twenty-three - WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON June 1675
Chapter Twenty-four - PALL MALL, LONDON November 1677
Chapter Twenty-five - PALL MALL, LONDON July 1679
Chapter Twenty-six - PALL MALL, LONDON October 1680
Author’s Note
READERS GUIDE
Teaser chapter
Praise for Royal Harlot
“As in her popular Duchess . . . Scott captures in her latest historical romance the brilliance and hard beauty of Barbara Palmer (Lady Castlemaine), the Merry Monarch’s most famous and enduring mistress. . . . Scott finds a careful balance in Barbara, not salvaging her as a sinner, but giving her something of a heart under all that reputation.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Among this novel’s many strengths are Scott’s impressive depiction of time and place, her evocation of the Restoration-era mindset, the exuberance of the period, and her sure, succinct presentation of complex historical events. The reader can well believe that this is a memoir penned by a woman who—in reality—was clearly too busy living to ever write one!”
—The Historical Novels Review
“Scott gives Charles II’s famous mistress, Barbara Villiers Palmer, Countess Castlemaine, free rein to tell her story. In her own words she brands herself as a woman who epitomizes a bawdy, lusty era. Scott’s vibrant, detailed portrait takes the dust off history and makes the 1660s accessible.”
—Romantic Times
Praise for Duchess
Named a Booksense Notable Book by the American Booksellers Association
“Wonderful . . . whisks the reader into a period rife with intrigue, love, sex, war, and religious strife.”
—The Historical Novels Review (Editor’s Choice Pick)
“All the trappings of supermarket tabloids: intrigue, treachery, deceit, and sexual scandals.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Susan Holloway Scott has brought to life the racy world of post-Restoration
England in her richly researched and beautifully written
Duchess.”
—Karen Harper, author of The First Princess of Wales
“No dry dust of history here, but a vivid portrait of an intriguing woman with all her flaws and strengths. Rich in period detail, the novel also has all the ingredients necessary for a compelling read: conflict, suspense, intrigue, and the romance between Sarah and John Churchill, one of history’s great love stories.”
—Susan Carroll, author of The Huntress
“Compelling. It grips the reader from the very first sentence and never lets go. Scott does a wonderful job of bringing Lady Sarah and her world to life.”
—Jeanne Kalogridis, author of I, Mona Lisa
“As wickedly entertaining as Sarah Churchill herself. . . . Scott brings
Sarah blazingly alive in all her sharp-edged beauty and determination.
Not to be missed!”
—Mary Jo Putney, author of A Distant Magic
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First published by New American Library,
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First Printing, July 2008
Copyright © Susan Holloway Scott, 2008 Readers Guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2008
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Scott, Susan Holloway.
The king’s favorite: a novel of Nell Gwyn and King Charles II / Susan Holloway Scott. p. cm.
eISBN : 978-0-451-22406-4
1. Gwyn, Nell, 1650-1687—Fiction. 2. Charles II, King of England, 1630-1685—Fiction. 3. Great Britain—History—Charles II, 1660-1685—Fiction. 4. Great Britain—Kings and rulers—Paramours—Fiction. 5. Great Britain—Court and courtiers—Fiction. 6. Mistresses—Great Britain—Fiction. I. Title. PS3560.A549K56 2008
813.54—dc22
2008000835
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Prologue
LONDON, 1684
I n
ever claimed to be a lady.
Why should I? In truth I’m proud of who I am and what I made myself to be, and that is worth a score of the highborn dissemblers that chatter like magpies about Whitehall Palace. I am content to be Mrs. Gwyn, no more, no less. That is enough for me, and for my great love the king as well.
To be sure, my life has been a merry path, full of cunning turns and twists. Anything seemed possible in those first early days of 1660, when Cromwell’s sour-faced Puritans had at last been turned out and Charles Stuart new returned from exile to claim the throne of England. Even as I toiled away my nights at Madam Ross’s, I wasn’t afraid to dream beyond my station, or to vow to do whatever I must to make those dreams become golden truth.
I’m Nelly Gwyn, aye, and I never once claimed to be a lady.
Chapter One
LONDON September 1661
Madam Ross’s house stood off Drury Lane, a ramshackle, slatternly place whose slipshod front was a match for what went on upstairs. The front room was thick with smoke and grime that never faded, the low beams overhead blackened with it. There were round tables at the back for gaming at cards or dice, and benches at another long table for those who wished victuals with their drink.
But most men who came through the narrow door sought nourishment of a different sort, the saucy company of a willing slut that half a crown would buy. With the one-eyed fiddler to play the jigs, it was a jolly enough house for men. Ale and brandy-water swelled them fat with roaring good humor and boastfulness, as if they were the greatest cocksmen the mortal world had ever seen. With a smile and a sly wink, we women let them believe it, too, and in exchange neatly emptied their pockets when their backs were turned; the same trade practiced by females of every rank, low and high, and where, I ask, is the sin in it?
Now, despite what has been said against me by those who delight in slander, I’ll vow upon the Scriptures that I never went up those twisting stairs with any man. Unlike most bawds in the town, Madam Ross didn’t believe in breaking a girl to the trade by force. When I was young, she was content to let me keep below, singing songs and ferrying pots of beer and ale to the tables all the night whilst I teased and danced free of groping hands. Hard work, aye, but far better than my last line of crying herrings barefoot in the street, fresh, fresh herrings, six for a groat. Girls like me who lodged in Coal Yard Alley, near Lewkenor’s Lane, seldom did so well for themselves. My mother and my sister, Rose, were not so nice, and jeered at how I earned much less than they did upon their backs.
I didn’t listen, nor take any heed of them. What did I care for a few more coins in my pocket? Why should I, when I was so sure of the brilliant future Fate meant for me to have?
“Here now, Nelly, along wit’ you.” Glowering, Mrs. Ross switched her clay pipe from one side of her mouth to the other, and gave me a sharp pinch on my arm to inspire me to haste. “The young scholars in the back are asking for brandy an’ a song, an’ they wants it from you.”
I nodded, standing on my toes to peer over the others to where she was pointing with the stem of her pipe. For certain they were young gentlemen, down from university for a bit of sport. Because I’d been born among the colleges in Oxford, I could always spot the ones we called scholars, and a troublesome lot they often were. With a sigh, I began to go toward them, but Madam Ross pulled me back.
“Mark the dark-haired one—his fellows call him my lord,” she cautioned. “An earl, for all he’s such a pup. Kindness, Nell. Show him kindness.”
I nodded. We’d often noblemen visit us, playing at taking their pleasure like a common Jack; they were good for custom, and to be encouraged. I smoothed the front of my rough wool bodice as I made my way toward the table, and raked my fingers through my auburn curls to make them fall more sweetly over my shoulders.
“Good eve, my handsome lads,” I said with my cheeriest smile. “What’s your pleasure this night? ”
The three on the far side of the table grinned at me like the happy young sots they were, their downy, pimpled cheeks ruddy and their eyes fuddled. The one that Madam Ross had marked as an earl turned in his seat to face me, and lah! How different he was from the others! He was splendidly favored, with even features and a mouth ripe with amusement, his dark, thick hair tumbling down his back. There were gold rings on his fingers, and soft fur on the green velvet cloak that he wore tossed over one shoulder; the very picture, I thought, of a fine young lordling.
Not that I trusted him the more for it. Young I was, aye, but not so foolish as that.
“Your name is Nell? ” he asked, as if this were some new drollery.
“It is, m’lord.” I bobbed a quick curtsey, taking care to keep my back straight and my rump low, the safest posture amongst a crowd of rampant, rascally men. I was the shortest of all the women, yet prettily curved with the sweetness of youth. I stood proudly before this young buck, with my arms akimbo, the better to display the neatness of my waist. “Nell or Eleanor or Nelly, I’ll answer to them all, and a good deal more besides.”
“Oh, I’ll grant you will, Nell,” he said slyly, looking me up and down with unabashed interest. “They say your voice puts the very lark to shame.”
“They say true, m’lord.” I smiled, tipping my head coyly to one side. In return for a song, I likely could cull him for a whole shilling, maybe two. “I sing like a bird, and dance like a sprite.”
“I’ll wager a crown that you swive like a stoat, too,” called one of the other young gentlemen at the table, to the roaring approval of his friends. “Like a wild stoat in heat!”
“Then I’ll answer your wager, sir,” I called, easily raising my voice to be heard over their din, a skill I’d practiced even then. “I’ll wager that you bray your wit when you rut like a wild ass. That is, you would, if you could but find a she-ass willing to let you cover her.”
“Hah, Brinton, pay up, pay up, for you are most decidedly an ass, and one without a she-ass, as well.” The young earl patted his hand on the table, his gold rings glinting by the light of the fire. “Come now, pay up. Don’t keep this admirably clever lass waiting.”
Grudgingly, Brinton took the coin from his pocket, standing to push it across the table toward me. “It’s a damned sorry day when you take a whore’s side against me, Rochester,” he said, wounded. “A damned sorry day.”
Swiftly I claimed the coin before they changed their minds. “It’s night, not day, sir,” I said, “and I’m no whore.”
“If you’re no whore, madam,” Brinton said with a drunkard’s certainty, “then truly I am an ass. Rochester, we’ll leave you to your lady.”
Unsteadily, he and the others reeled off into the crowd, and the earl looked back to me.
“How can you be in this place, dearling,” he asked, “and not be a whore?”
I drummed my fingers lightly against my waist. “How can you be in this place, milord, yet be a peer? ”
“How?” With a single forefinger, he reached out to trace the angle of my bent elbow, so light and featherlike a touch that I shivered. “Because wherever I am, low or high, I will remain the Earl of Rochester.”
“Just as I’m Nelly Gwyn, at Mrs. Ross’s or anywhere else,” I said firmly, drawing myself away from his wicked, teasing touch. “ ’Tis said the fairest blossom grows on the dunghill, you know.”
He laughed again, settling back in his chair. “But unless that blossom’s plucked at the height of its glory, then the stink of the dunghill will in time spoil even its sweet petals. What is needed is a wise gardener, to guide you through the seasons of love.”
Love, hah. I knew full well what kind of offer this was, just as I knew I’d be a fool to accept it.
“This blossom’s done well enough without some meddlesome gardener, milord,” I said, tossing my hair over my shoulder to show my disdain. “And even if I were crying for one in the market, why, I’d—”
“It’s the king!” exclaimed a man behind us. “His Majesty’s here!”
At once the words were picked
up like a chorus all around us. Everything else was forgotten, every head craning toward the door to see if it were true. Unsure of what was proper to do, some men bowed low and women curtseyed, while others simply gawked to find the king so suddenly in our midst. Without a thought, I hopped onto a nearby bench, desperate to see for myself over the crowd of heads.
“The king is here?” asked Rochester with disbelief as he, too, rose to gape. “In this place?”
But there was never a chance of mistaking Charles Stuart for anyone else, he was that much taller than the three gentlemen attendants who’d come with him, and every other man in the room. And that was not all: he was dark, almost swarthy, with long, curling black hair that set him apart from ordinary Englishmen. Even from across the room, I could feel the force of his personality, his regal power, and his genial charm, too.
His Majesty, His Majesty! I’d glimpsed him from afar like this many times since he’d returned to his throne two years before: when he strolled with his courtiers outside Whitehall Palace, or sailed in the royal yacht on the river, or rode on horseback through St. James’s Park. With each sighting he’d bewitched and inspired me further, until I was fair lovesick with him, a man who’d no notion I lived and breathed within his very realm.
“He’s come here to this house before, milord,” I now whispered with awe. “We’re not supposed to recognize him, dressed so plain as he is, but of course we all do. He’ll take two or three girls upstairs at a time, and lah, they do swear he is the first gentleman of the kingdom in every way!”
“So it is him,” Rochester said, his whisper a match for my own. “But why would he come to Drury Lane when he’d so fine a lady as Barbara Palmer waiting in his bed at Whitehall?”