The King's Favorite

by Susan Holloway Scott

  For the first months of the year, I succeeded, too, or so I’d thought. By April, I’d learned otherwise, but by then—ah, by then it was too late for me to care.

  Chapter Twelve

  LONDON April 1668

  There is, I think, no finer season in London than that of spring. The last of the dirty snow is gone from even the darkest alleys and corners, the sun shines longer each day into night, the very air itself seems softer and more gentle. Branches that had been bare now sprout new greenery, and in the markets, too, stalls that had been empty suddenly offer the freshest bounty from the country. The river swells, as happy as the rest of us to be free of ice, and the rushes along the banks spring green again. People are the same, it seems, trading heavy dress for light, and turning their faces up to the sky like so many pale flowers. The whole humor of London will change on a sunny spring day, with everyone of every station more agreeable, more pleasing, and easily pleased in return. Is it any wonder, then, that it is far easier to be a player in the spring, than in the chilly, critical winter?

  After the black scandal of Buckingham’s duel, we were all especially eager for the lightness of spring to come that year. I required little to feel my spirits rise, being by nature the same mad little creature as I so often played. A tiny posey of the first snowdrops to tuck at the top of my bodice, a walk in the park without swaddling scarves and gloves, a dish of sweet cheesecakes at the Keeper’s Lodge in the park: all were simple pleasures of spring that gave me much delight.

  Others, of course, were neither so simple nor so innocent, but every bit as delightsome in their way. First was a printed broadside that, in the way of such wickedly libelous sheets, appeared suddenly one night with no author to claim its birth. Entitled “The Poor Whores’ Petition,” it pretended to be written by that group of Londoners whence I’d myself risen: “the undone company of poor distressed, whores, bawds, pimps, and panders,” offering their complaints against the mob of apprentices who’d recently disheveled and burned a number of bawdy houses from outrage and for sport.

  But even as Lord Rochester read it aloud (and quite dramatically, too) to me in my tiring-room, I could smoke the satire that lay beneath. Disguised as a plea from the poor, the broadsheet was in truth a most virulent attack on the greed of Lady Castlemaine and her recent conversion to the Romish church, and all presented in the most cunning and clever style imaginable. The disguise was not very deep, either, for the piece was dedicated to her by name, as the “most Splendid, Illustrious, Serene, & Eminent Lady of Pleasure.”

  As can be guessed, I roared with gleeful laughter as I listened to this, begging His Lordship to reread the most deliciously libelous parts again.

  “Oh, my lord, how furious Her Ladyship must be over this!” I exclaimed, wiping away my tears of amusement. “To see her august name linked with great bawds like Madam Cresswell and Damaris Page—’Od’s blood, it’s too droll to consider!”

  The earl laughed with me, for he’d as much an appreciation for wicked mockery as I did myself. “She’s in such a righteous fury, I marvel that we cannot hear her clear from Whitehall. They say she gave the king no peace all of last night, ranting and wailing and demanding that heads must roll to defend her honor.”

  “Her honor!” I cried, drawing myself up in her haughty splendor, but with my palms pressed together and my gaze raised to Her Ladyship’s most Catholic heavens. “Holy Father in the Saintly See of Rome, defend me from these base Anglican slanders!”

  “You’re a naughty little jade, Nelly,” Rochester said indulgently, still laughing through his scold. “Barbara’s as good as hung herself, converting like that. Englishmen will forgive her greed, her lust, her bastards by the score, but they’ll never accept their king fucking a Romish whore. Why, fancy, sweetheart, I’ve just made a rhyme from the air.”

  “Pish, I’ll wager you conceived it on the way here, and have been saving it until now,” I scoffed, reaching out to give him a teasing cuff on the jaw. “I know Mrs. Cresswell, and the house she keeps in Nightingale Lane. I could ask her to call upon Her Ladyship at the palace, to offer her consolation in her disgrace. As sisters, mind, just as it says on that page.”

  “You do that, Nelly, and the poor king will have no peace for the rest of the year.” He refolded the broadsheet and tucked it for safekeeping into the oversized fur muff he wore on a ribbon around his neck, a new conceit among the most killing gallants. “No one would dare print such a sheet five years ago, when the lady was in her glory. But if ever there was proof that her sun is setting with the king, then this is it.”

  He was right, of course. For those who could read the signs, Lady Castlemaine’s place with the king was most certainly on the wane. I felt sorry for Charles, aye. The countess’s temper was notorious, her rages legendary, and reputed to be growing worse by the day. I didn’t doubt that he’d loved her once, and in some fashion loved her still, he had that much kindness in him. To have her turn so disagreeably shrewish must be as painful to Charles as had been Buckingham’s wickedness. He’d find no comfort in Moll Davis’s house in Suffolk Street, either, for I’d heard he’d soon wearied of her dullish wit and plain, flat face.

  Charles didn’t complain to me, nor did I expect him to. But he visited me with increasing frequency, and called me to the palace as well, and as our friendship grew, I knew my turn would come soon. The hunger I saw in his dark eyes as he watched me proclaimed his intent as surely as if he’d ordered a banner flying from the center of London Bridge.

  All I must needs do now was be ready for the prize to be offered, and then seize it as my own. It seemed I’d waited my entire life for Charles Stuart. I could wait a little longer.

  Ahh, no wonder I did so love the spring!

  The young gentleman was waiting for me at the door of my lodgings, standing before the hired carriage. He was not much older than myself, yet as green as new sprouts in the kitchen garden. His clothes were costly but old-fashioned in the way of country squires, a dun brown doublet and breeches, his boots heavy enough for a trooper to ride to battle. He wore his own hair, pale gold but lank enough that his ears poked through on the sides, and though his skin was clear and bright from sturdy living, his eyes had been opened so wide by what he’d seen this last week of visiting London that he couldn’t help but stare in astonished perpetuity.

  “Mr. Sillveri?” I asked prettily, as I stepped down from my door. “I trust I’ve not kept you long, sir.”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Gwyn, not at all,” he said, with that bluff heartiness that rural gentlemen always display, as if they could never leave off the hunt’s halloo. “I vow, it’s most fine of you to accompany me to the playhouse like this.”

  “Oh, ’tis my pleasure entirely, Mr. Sillveri,” I said, holding out my hand for him to help me into the carriage. He stared at it for the longest minute before he belatedly realized his role, then seized my fingers and hauled me aboard like a privateer with a prize.

  I’d agreed to lead the gentleman about for the day as a special favor to Rochester, who claimed he was an old and dear friend from his days at university. Yet as I watched him fumbling with the carriage door and then the window, I marveled that the well-polished earl would ever count such a bumpkin among his acquaintances. For Rochester’s sake, I’d make myself as agreeable as possible to the fellow. For my own, I’d mark his country attitudes and expressions and store them away for myself, against the time I might have to play such a character on the stage.

  Rochester had procured a fine box for us at the Duke’s House, for a new play by his witty crony George Etherege called She Wou’d If She Cou’d. Though the play wasn’t half so clever as its title, I was vastly amused by the character of Lady Cockwood, a lubricious old hen who chased after younger men, and modeled plainly upon Lady Castlemaine. My companion, however, was thunderstruck by this poor offering, exclaiming aloud at every line with such unabashed innocence that I couldn’t help but share his enjoyment.

  But even greater wonders lay before
us, or more correctly, to our side. Before the first act was fair begun, the empty box beside ours was taken by Charles and his brother the Duke of York. They were dressed like common gentlemen and had claimed an ordinary box instead of the royal one, a favorite conceit of the brothers. Everyone in the house knew at once they were there, craning and pointing to gawk. We greeted one another happily, remarking on the coincidence that had brought us together (a coincidence that I suspected was no cocincidence at all, but some device of Rochester’s, so that his friend might be introduced to His Majesty.)

  “Mr. Sillveri,” Charles said, pleasantness itself. “My grandmother was born to the house of deMedici from Florence, and I vow that your name has the same character. Do your ancestors come from Italian blood as well, sir? ”

  Sillveri pursed his mouth and considered so long before answering that I feared he might forget the king’s question.

  “I thank you for your question, Your Majesty,” he said at last, and with ponderous care. “My name is a gift from the gentleman who gave me creation.”

  “Ah, indeed, indeed.” Charles raised his brows and smiled at this nonsensical reply, while his brother York, beside him, was unable to keep back the laughter that spilled into his sleeve.

  “Mr. Sillveri is down from the country, sir,” I said quickly, striving to ease the awkwardness as best I could. “It’s his first time in London.”

  “I trust you’ll enjoy yourself, sir, especially with so charming an escort as Mrs. Gwyn.” Even for Charles and his impeccable manners, this was effort enough, and he now leaned across the hapless Mr. Sillveri to address me.

  “Confess, Nelly,” he whispered. “What the devil did you do to Rochester to have earned so grave a penance in return?”

  I giggled behind my hand, not wishing to discomfit Mr. Sillveri, but the poor dolt was so enrapt with the play that he didn’t notice.

  “I swear I did nothing, sir,” I whispered in return.

  “Nothing, pet?” he repeated archly. “If that is true, Nelly, then I should like to see what mischief you achieve when you try.”

  I giggled still, unable to stop, as much from knowing that I shouldn’t as from his actual words. “Hush, sir, please, I beg you,” I said. “Hush, and mind the play!”

  But he didn’t hush, and he didn’t mind the play. Instead he minded only me, leaning so far across poor Mr. Sillveri that they finally traded their seats. When the play was done, I couldn’t have offered a single comment about its content, I’d paid it that little heed. But as for the king: Ah, whether it was the audience in the pit below us or the unfamiliarity of being together at a play instead of separated by the stage, or perhaps even the stilted presence of the countryman, I vow Charles and I had never enjoyed one another’s conversation the more.

  As together we four went down the stairs, I dreaded the parting that was coming, I’d enjoyed myself so thoroughly. I racked my brains, trying to contrive a graceful way to remain in Charles’s company. But it was Mr. Sillveri himself who delivered me, inviting the royal brothers to dine with us at a nearby eating house.

  The landlord was a busy, bustling fellow with a full table of guests, and by some miraculous oversight, failed to realize the identity of his royal patrons. Instead of giving us his finest chamber, we were tucked away in a tiny, humble room, which amused the brothers to no end. The wine flowed and the conversation grew merrier still, or rather it did for the three of us, and not for the fourth, who seemed to grow even more wooden beneath the grape, if such a thing were possible. With desperate resignation, I finally gave him up as a cause too lost to be pursued further, and instead turned my pleasure to Charles.

  I fashioned amusing hats from my napkin, stood on my chair and recited favorite pieces of my parts, and hiked my skirts above my garters to dance. When I was done, the king himself offered me his lap by way of a seat, and I happily claimed it as my own. I was warm with the dancing and the wine, and made warmer still by the royal length of Charles’s cock, so hard and of a size that I could feel it with ease through my smock, petticoats, and skirts, and his breeches.

  I slipped my hand beneath the long curls of his wig to loop my arm around his shoulders, leaning against his chest to catch my breath, while he in turn accepted the invitation that my low (after the French fashion) bodice seemed to offer. His hand cradled my breast most agreeably, with the nub of my nipple rising at once to greet its king. From there it seemed most natural to kiss, which we did, and to increase our mutual pleasure by further caresses, which we likewise did, without any heed of the other two gentlemen with us. I was heady with delicious delight, and ready to concede that my time had, in fact, nearly come, along with my own sweet crisis and Charles’s, too.

  “Time to bid good night, Charles,” the duke said, loud on a purpose to interrupt us. “I’ve already watched one bawdy production today, and I’m in no humor for another.”

  Laughing, I wriggled free and slid from the king’s lap, and pulled my clothes to rights just as the keep appeared with our reckoning. His expression was all grim appraisal as he looked about our little party, rightly guessing the tomfoolery that he’d barely missed witnessing. We’d drunk a great deal among us and our bill was likely the highest in the house that night. Doubtless from hard experience, he stood blocking the doorway to prevent the gentlemen (or me) from leaving before we’d settled our tally.

  With regal disdain, Charles scarce glanced at the tally. He patted and searched his pockets in that way that men always do, then sheepishly looked to his brother.

  “I’ve no coin with me, James,” he said. “I must have forgotten to shift my purse when we dressed.”

  I pressed my hands over my mouth to stifle the laughter that came bubbling up. What this glowering keep would say if he realized he were dunning the king himself!

  But the farce was about to stretch further still. Now it was the Duke of York’s turn to pat and dig and turn his empty pockets outward, with the same sorry excuse. The closer truth, I’m sure, was that princes and kings seldom leave their palaces expecting to pay for so much as a farthing’s worth of services or goods. But regardless of the excuse, the result was the same: We were stranded in our open skiff of celebration, and floating downstream fast without a golden oar (or one, perhaps, of shillings and pence) to save us.

  The duke cleared his throat, a horribly self-conscious rumble that did little to help our cause. “I’m sure this can be settled peacefully, sir,” he began, hoping to placate the keep. “My brother and I both seem to be caught short. Among gentlemen, our word—”

  “Your word don’t matter a damn against your coin, sirs,” the keep said sternly. “If you gentlemen don’t pay your due, why, then I’ll summon the bailiff to take you off, see if I don’t.”

  The doleful look on the Stuart faces was too much for me to bear, not without speaking out.

  “ ’Od’s fish!” I exclaimed, precisely mimicking Charles and one of his infamous oaths. “But this is the poorest company I ever was in!”

  Charles looked at me, his eyes wide, then began to laugh at me so hard he leaned against the wall to steady himself.

  “Laugh if you will, sir,” said the keep, his face mottled with anger at our impertinence. “But I won’t—”

  “I’ll settle, sir,” said Mr. Sillveri, forgotten in his chair. He’d already taken out his purse and had begun counting out the coins. “Will this do, sir?”

  It would, and it did. On the cushion of Mr. Sillveri’s generosity, we were able to leave the eating house and tumble uproariously into the street. There we separated, in two different carriages: Mr. Sillveri with the duke (doubtless through some manner of previous arrangement), and I with the king.

  With the king. How could such simple words convey so much? I was with the king, with Charles Stuart, with Carolus Rex, the master of all England and Englishmen, and yet he was jesting and teasing with me as merrily and as comfortably as any ordinary rascal in a tavern.

  In the carriage we continued what we’d begun i
n the eating house, laughing and kissing and fondling with great abandon. We’d waited and wanted for so long that now we’d no patience for an artful seduction. Instead I clambered astride his lap, my knees on either side of his legs, and blindly unfastened his breeches as we kissed. He showed the same eagerness, shoving my skirts into a billow around my hips so he could reach the delights I’d so long denied. He groaned when my greedy fingers found his springing cock, and he groaned again when I eased him home, deep and hard, with a shuddering little cry of my own.

  And ’Od’s blood, the tales of his size and strength were true, every one of them.

  I caught the heel of my shoe in the hem of one of my petticoats and tore it with a satisfying rip. He pulled my bodice down to free my breasts for his tasting, impatiently casting aside his heavy wig so as to be less encumbered. My garters came untied (or were untied for me; who knew for sure?) as he shoved harder, and the pins shook from my hair, the curls falling in a tumble over my shoulders. His close-cropped head bristled beneath my fingers as I held him close, and gasped with rare pleasure as he quickened our pace. It was all done with the clumsy haste of the most heated venery, made even less graceful by the rocking lurch of the carriage, yet as we both expired in a tangled, sweaty spend, I judged it to be the most excellent coupling of my short life.

  “No poor company now, eh, Nelly?” he whispered roughly against my throat. He still was thick within me, a rare achievement for a man of nearly forty years, and a fine compliment to me. “Nothing poor about that, was there?”