The King's Favorite

by Susan Holloway Scott

  “Because the king thinks only of himself, Nelly, and not of your pride,” he observed. “With him, it’s the ease of the capture, with as little effort as possible squandered on the hunt. He could believe that you’re still constant to Hart. For an actress, you’re faithfulness personified.”

  “I am still constant to Charles,” I said, more sharply than I’d intended. “For now, anyways. But that shouldn’t make me ugly and unwanted.”

  “To some men it does.”

  “Including His Majesty, it would seem. He’d rather be poxed by Moll Davis.” I made a small wordless outcry of frustration and disgust. “Moll Davis!”

  “Enough of the green-eyed monster, Mrs. Gwyn,” Rochester said, forgetting how he’d been the one to let the monster out of its cave in the first place. “Killigrew’s calling for you. The king awaits.”

  “A pox on you, m’lord,” I said, “and especially on your precious member.”

  His laughter followed me as I ran toward the front of the large chamber. I was determined not to keep the king a-waiting a moment longer, or a-thinking of Moll Davis, either. My earlier anxiety vanished as soon as I stood before the crowd. An audience was an audience, whether one lone soul or a hundred, and either way I was completely at my ease.

  I bowed grandly before the king and queen, and with the fiddlers playing my favorite jig (cleverly called “I Care Not a Pin for Any Man”), I danced and pranced and leapt and spun. I laughed and teased and flipped my wide-legged breeches to show more of my legs above the hose and garters, and a flash of my bum, too. I sang, as well, in my lusty small voice, then danced again, and if I was hoarse by the time I was done, I knew I’d done my best to please my king.

  “How you delight me, Nelly!” he said, coming forward to raise me himself from my final bow. His face was wreathed in smiles, his joy in my performance having wiped that grim loneliness from his brow. “You do the King’s Company proud. What pleasure it is to watch you!”

  “Your Majesty’s too kind,” I said, more breathless from the grasp of his hand around mine than from all my dances combined. Let Moll yowl and stamp: I could delight him into this rare happiness. “It’s the Rhinegraves, you know.”

  He glanced down at the breeches and grinned wickedly, far too wickedly for a king. “You like them, then?”

  “Oh, aye, sir, how could I not? ” Still holding his hand, I turned on my toes, making the full legs spin out from my legs one last time. “I trust I bring ’em honor?”

  “You know you do, you impudent little creature,” he said, laughing. “Wear them next time you play Florimell. I’ll be watching to see that you do.”

  I bowed low again in an elegant Turkish salaam, or leastwise it was elegant save for my round, purple-clad bottom up in the air.

  “Whatever you wish, sir,” I said, looking up at him to wink most winningly. “Whatever you wish.”

  As an opening salvo against my blowsabella rival Moll Davis, purple Rhinegraves and a quick-step jig were nothing to be sniffed at. But unlike too many of our admirals, I didn’t believe in sitting back and admiring the workmanship of a single battle when there was an entire war waiting to be won. Soon after I’d danced at the palace, I asked Beck Marshall to come with me to the Duke’s Company’s playhouse in Lincoln’s Inn Fields to watch Moll perform—to reconnoiter my adversary in action, as was only wise.

  We weren’t shy about our presence, taking seats in the front of a box so we wouldn’t be missed. As if a pair of pretty minxes such as Beck and I weren’t enough to draw attention on our own merits, we’d also been sure to wear our bright red cloaks with silver lacing, the livery granted to us by the king, and marking us before all the world as his exclusive servants.

  “You’re sure this is the play, Nell?” Beck asked, taking a loud bite from the apple she’d brought with her. “I don’t want to give Davenant’s people one shilling more than I must.”

  “It’s The Rivals,” I said, peering over the rail. I hadn’t missed the irony of that title, reading all manner of omens into it. The play was one of Mr. Davenant’s own reductions of some ancient comedy by Shakespeare, and the king’s interest had made the play and Moll popular beyond their worth. “Lord Rochester told me it’s that one wretched song about the cold ground that won the king. That’s the sum of what I must hear, and then we can leave.”

  “There’s a precious lot of people here,” Beck observed, heedless of the apple juice she was spraying on those in the pit below us. “More than we’ve been seeing of late.”

  “I’ll see to that,” I said with grim determination. “Watch me. Within a week, I’ll make them all forget Moll, and speak only of King’s Company.”

  Moll’s first appearance was greeted with cheers and applause, to which she responded by stepping forward from her place and curtseying, and letting the other players mope about without her.

  “Master Killigrew’d have our head if we did that,” Beck whispered. “Breaking character in the first scene!”

  “You’d think she was queen herself,” I whispered in return. “I told you, she’s always acting like she’s better than the rest of us.”

  Moll wasn’t a comely woman, and I’m not just judging her as my rival, either. She’d indifferent brown hair, small eyes, and thick lips: a thoroughgoing Howard, whether the family claimed her or not. When she caught up her petticoats to dance, her steps were clumsy and deliberate, forcing her to cleverly wriggle her hips like some lewd glow-worm caught on a fisherman’s hook, so no one would notice her deficiencies. No wonder the king—and likely every other cock in the playhouse—had been so captivated.

  “Here’s that blasted song at last,” I muttered. I listened, and was as unimpressed as I’d expected to be. Still, I took care to mark every too-coy inflection and thumping meter, the better to make it my own later. Finally came the lines of the song that had made such an impression on the royal ears:

  My lodging is on the cold ground,

  And very hard is my fare,

  But that which troubles me most is

  The unkindness of my dear.

  Yet still I cry, O, turn, Love,

  And I prythee, Love, turn to me,

  For thou are the man that I long for,

  And alack what remedy!

  The audience seemed to sigh as a whole over this wretchedness, whilst I could only groan.

  “That’s it,” I said to Beck. “Lord Rochester told me that after the king had heard Moll sing, he announced that he’d gladly raise her from her lodging on the ground to a more comfortable one in his bed. Fah! Come with me, Beck. I’ve heard enough to know what my own remedy must be.”

  Three days later, with the opening of our next play, I was ready.

  We’d already been rehearsing The Mad Couple, another play, as can be guessed, that had been designed to display the talents of Charles, as the gallant Philador, and me as another wild girl, this one called Mirida. There was a great deal of foolishness (and little wit, I must say) to this play, but it was fun, both to perform and to watch.

  Much of the bawdiest humor in The Mad Couple depended on Mr. Lacy as an odious suitor of mine named Pinguister, who was so enormously fat that he could never come close enough to Mirida to kiss her, let alone perform any other amorous sport. Mr. Lacy’s costume included a special interlining stuffed with clumps of sheep’s wool, and in this suit he was so vast that he could scarce do more than waddle about the stage, like a pumpkin with stubby limbs and a head. It was amazing, truly, that we ever managed to learn the play, we had to stop our rehearsals so often from laughing.

  Thus it had been easy enough to contrive the parody, to add a mocking scene and a scandalous song, and easy, too, to pass the word of the new play’s timely revisions to Lord Rochester, Lord Buckhurst, and several other fashionable wits who gossiped freely around the court. With so much chatter, it was no wonder that our house was full to spilling over. Most importantly to me, the word came while we were dressing that the king himself was in his box.

&n
bsp; I was primed, and so was the audience.

  Every scene was well received, and every time I appeared on the stage, I was greeted with great applause. Yet it felt as if everyone were holding their breath together, waiting for the scene they’d all heard would come. At last it did, with Mirida bidding Pinguister come sit on her lap. No one could cry and wail like Mr. Lacy, tormented by the knowledge that he is too fat to follow his love. While he wept, I (as Mirida) cast myself to the floor and sang my frustration, too, and made certain to employ exactly the same whining, singsong inflection that Moll had used, with the same wooden gestures.

  My lodging is on the cold boards,

  And wonderful hard is my fare,

  But that which troubles me most is

  The Fatness of my Dear.

  Yet still I cry, Oh, me, love,

  And I prythee now, melt apace,

  For thou art the man I should long for

  If ’twere only not for grease.

  Oh, was there anything more deliciously ludicrous? I could scarce hear Mr. Lacy’s replies for the laughter and uproarious cheers that had greeted my song, but I wasn’t yet done. Instead of walking toward me like an ordinary suitor, Pinguister’s ungainly girth made him roll across the boards like a giant ball, while I in turn was reduced to rolling away from him, the way children do on a grassy hill. Trying to avoid having my tiny person crushed by the mighty Pinguister, I flailed my limbs about in a mockery of Moll’s sorry dance, my legs and petticoats tossing prettily about the stage while Mr. Lacy rolled about after me. It was extraordinarily silly, and extraordinarily funny, and the glow of that silliness followed me into the tiring-room afterward.

  “I’ve never seen a house laugh so hard,” I said to Charles and to Master Killigrew. With their help, I’d climbed high onto a stack of boxes and trunks, and sat perched there, swinging my legs, where all could see me. The tiring-room was overflowing with members of the company, friends, and general well-wishers: my own court, if you will. “I ask you, Master Killigrew. Have you ever seen the like?”

  “What I saw, Nelly, was your triumph, not to mention your wild, brazen audacity,” he said, raising a goblet of wine to me that had appeared from somewhere. “To you, my dear.”

  “To Nelly!” shouted the others, and I made a precarious Turkish salaam in acknowledgment. “To Nelly Gwyn!”

  But Master Killigrew held up his hands for silence, and then continued. “What I also saw were your champions in the pit battling with those from the Duke’s Company, ready to defend the dubious honor of Mrs. Davis. I do not have to tell you which of those worthies was victorious, do I?”

  Those around my feet roared their approval.

  “What did I tell you, lads?” I called in return. “What did I say? ”

  I’d claimed Pinguister’s oversized hat as my own, though it was so much too big that even with the crown cocked back on my head, it still settled low over my brows to my nose. Now I swept it from my head and used it to fan their excitement, waving it back and forth.

  “Who’s the first company in London?” I crowed. “The King’s Company, and ever shall be!”

  “The king!” shouted one of my gallants. “Long live the king!”

  I grabbed a tankard from a waving hand and held it high. “To His Majesty, King Charles Stuart! May he live long and laugh long, and love long, too!”

  “Oh, he laughed, Nelly, especially at your song,” Lord Rochester called up to me. He’d just made his way into the room, with his two cronies Lord Buckhurst and Sir Charles Sedley. “Laughed until the tears flowed like the Thames down his royal cheeks. As for the loving long with long loving, I can only guess.”

  “Where is he, then?” I asked excitedly over the roaring, trying to see through to the doorway for myself. “Is His Majesty coming? Make way, then, make way for the king!”

  “He’s gone, Nell,” Rochester said. “He’s not coming here. He and the queen drove off in their coach, not five minutes past.”

  “Gone?” I could not believe it. Here I’d given the most joyfully amusing performance of my career, tailored exactly to the king’s tastes and amusement, a performance that had made him laugh until he’d wept, and how had he shown his appreciation? By leaving, with nary a peep of praise or congratulations. No, I could not believe it, nor countenance it, either, and if he’d been any man other than the king, I would have cursed him soundly for such ill-mannered ingratitude.

  “You’ll be our queen instead, Nelly!” called some young gentleman beneath me. “Queen Nelly!”

  I laughed, delighted by such a foolish notion. In truth I was still so giddy from the stage, I was as good as drunk, with barely a drop of wine or ale having passed my lips. I took Pinguister’s hat and set it upside down on my head, so the crown stood high and the flopping brim rippled over it like a mushroom’s cap on its stalk.

  “Behold, Her Majesty Nell, Queen o’ Great Wit and Utter Foolishness!” I lifted my chin with royal disdain, my hands outstretched to receive the adoration of my subjects, their hands all raised toward me. I stood, balancing for a moment on my perch. Then, without another thought and my arms still stretched out like wings, I pitched forward onto the crowd below me, my makeshift crown toppling from my head. I was Queen Nell, and I could do whatever I pleased.

  Yet instead of being supported by a sea of eager acolytes, I found myself caught and gathered up by a single pair of arms. Startled, I twisted around to see my savior’s face, tensed to push myself free, if necessary.

  “Lord Buckhurst!” I exclaimed with happy surprise. “What the devil are you doing with your queen?”

  “Only granting the tribute that she deserves,” he said, his round face flushed and full of merriment. He was a strong gentleman, and I a tiny woman, and thus it was no trouble at all for him to carry me through the cheering crowd out of the tiring-room and into the hall. I was laughing still, with one arm looped about Buckhurst’s shoulders and my feet pointing prettily, as if eager to begin dancing another jig.

  But before I’d quite realized it, he’d borne me into a small closet behind the stage where tools and properties were stored. He kicked the door shut behind us, and without ceremony dropped me down on my feet.

  “Here now, m’lord, none o’ that game,” I said briskly, more than a little disconcerted to find myself in the dark with a gentleman I knew mostly as a friend of Lord Rochester’s. “As delightsome as your company may be, a queen can’t—”

  “I’ve an offer for you, Nell,” he said, “one I trust will be pleasing to us both.”

  “I don’t make bargains with the devil, m’lord.” I tried to slip around him, and his arm came out to block my path, trapping me there with him.

  “There’ll be no bargaining involved, my dear,” he said. “It’s a proposal. All you must do is accept or refuse.”

  My wariness was growing by the second. I knew where such circumstances as these could lead, especially when the man was a peer, and the woman—ah, I was considerably less. No, less than nothing: that’s the worth of whores and actresses, with plenty more poor girls to take our places. If I struck Buckhurst in the cods with my knee or my fist (the way every girl from my alley knew how to do), if I used him the way he deserved, then as like as not, he’d have me taken up for striking him. From Newgate, I could be transported to the colonies, or carted to hang at Tyburn, and who’d cheer poor Nelly then?

  “I want you, Nell,” he said, his voice surprisingly mild for such a declaration. “I can’t put you from my head.”

  “No, m’lord, that’s not possible,” I said in the stern voice that women reserved for inflamed men and naughty children. “Only a madman would speak so, and you’re not mad.”

  “But you are, Nell.” He chuckled softly. “You’re the maddest of girls, aren’t you? To see you as you were tonight, tossing yourself about the floor, your legs—ah, your legs, Nell; the finest I’ve ever seen on a jade.”

  “You are mad.” I’d never expected this of Buckhurst. He’d always been as me
rry as the rest of Rochester’s gang, jesting and teasing and talking lewd for the sport of it. Yet were it not for Rochester’s single barb about how I’d break Buckhurst’s heart, I wouldn’t have guessed he’d any particular interest in me at all. “Mad as May butter, that’s what you are, m’lord.”

  “Mad for you, Nell, for you,” he said, his courtier’s drawl bemused yet oddly seductive, too. “I could take you now, you know, here against this wall. You’d like it that way, wouldn’t you? You like risk. You like danger. That bit tonight, the mockery of Moll Davis—you should have been born at court, challenging your rival like that. You heat my blood, Nell, to boil and more.”

  “Ah, m’lord, forgive me, then,” I said breathlessly, for truth to tell, all this wicked talk of his was warming me, too. “I only meant to make you laugh, not boil.”

  “I like a woman with wit,” he said with relish. “Wit and passion run deep together, don’t they? You’d not complain of me, Nell. I’d make sure you spent, and I’d wager it would be better than Hart ever gave you.

  God’s blood, but I’m hard as a rock just thinking of your hot little notch. Damn me, I could take you without preamble, but I won’t.”

  “That’s a small blessing, isn’t it?” I ducked and slid beneath his arm, but again he blocked my path.

  “Come away with me for the summer to Epsom, Nell,” he said, as easily as if he were asking me to supper. I heard him shift in the dark, lifting the arm that had restrained me. “I’ll take a house near the Downs, and we can be mad together.”

  “Epsom, m’lord!” I’d not expected that, either. The rogue was naught but surprises. “You truly are mad.”

  “If I am, what of it?” With the lightest of touches, he traced a single finger down my forehead and along my upturned nose. “We’ll take the waters, we’ll dance, we’ll be merry with friends. We’ll . . . play. You’ll be my mad girl, there beneath the summer moon.”