The Countess and the King: A Novel of the Countess of Dorchester and King James II

by Holloway Scott, Susan

  We ladies who now sat in a specially constructed viewing box waited with a mixture of excitement and dread. God willing, this would be the closest that any of us would ever come to a true war, yet still we worried that matters might become too genuine, and gentlemen dear to us might be injured.

  “Please God His Highness will be safe,” Mary Beatrice said to no one of us in particular. Though the evening was clear and still warm from the day, she would take no chances with a chill, and kept a lacy woolen shawl over her shoulders. She was four months with child, the soft swell of her growing belly now apparent beneath her petticoats. She rested her hand over her unborn child now, as if by protecting him (for all England prayed it was a him) she was likewise protecting her husband. “I pray he’ll take no unnecessary risks.”

  “Gentlemen as brave as Father don’t need to take risks,” declared the Lady Mary of York, sitting beside the duchess in another armchair that showed that she, too, was a royal princess. Lady Mary was the twelve-year-old daughter of His Highness’s first marriage, second in line for the crown after her father. Unlike many girls confronted with a new stepmother, the two were so close in age that they had discovered an instant affection for each other, and were often together. “You need not worry for Father.”

  “No one will hurt Father,” agreed the Lady Anne of York from the other side of the duchess. Lady Anne was three years younger, and freed from the nursery tonight to watch the siege. Where Lady Mary was already a lively beauty, tall and fair-skinned with chestnut curls, Lady Anne was sullen and doughy with dun-colored hair and an unfortunate squint brought on by a weakness of the eyes. She leaned forward, swinging her legs beneath her skirts. “No one would dare hurt Father.”

  “You are right, of course,” Mary Beatrice said, then sighed in a way that showed she didn’t think Lady Anne was right at all. “He is the leader of the attacking regiments. No ill would dare come to him.”

  I agreed with Lady Anne. For now, the duke was heir to the king. He might be in command of one group of forces attacking the castle, just as Lord Monmouth would lead the other, but His Highness likely wouldn’t ever be in any real danger, as much as he might wish to be daring or brave. The king simply wouldn’t permit it. The three princesses in their tall-backed armchairs needn’t fear.

  But for me crowded together with other lesser ladies on a bench toward the back of the box, the worry was genuine enough. James had vowed to be in the thick of the fighting, just as he had during the actual siege, and the more he described the realism that was planned for tonight, the more I feared for his safety. He had laughed at my dread, and promised to come find me as soon as he could at the late supper that would follow the divertissement.

  Trumpets sounded, and the attack began. Several officers too old to participate stood nearby to explain to us ladies what exactly was occurring, but their words were soon drowned out in the crackle of musket fire and the thundering of the cannon, and the stirring, near-constant tattoo of the drums. Nor, truly, did we need much explanation. The finer points of the siege might have been lost, but it was impossible not to be swept into the excitement of the spectacle of bright-coated soldiers and waving banners beneath rolling white clouds of gunpowder smoke lit by burning brands. By the time it was done and the “fortress” duly captured, my heart still raced with excitement and my voice was hoarse from cheering. So genuine had the siege appeared that I couldn’t believe that there’d been no casualties, as His Majesty proudly announced.

  As soon as the last rockets had burst in the night sky, we hurried to the courtyard to be reunited with our warriors for supper and refreshments. Fiddlers played merrily, their tunes bouncing back and forth against the castle walls, while the acrid scent of gunpowder still filled the air. Already the yard was thick with folk, courtiers in their usual finery mingling freely with roaring officers in coats muddy and worn from the battle, and the usual servants bearing flacons of ale and bottles of wine as well as dogs yipping and darting between the legs of the unsuspecting.

  The king had soon found the duke and Lord Monmouth, and was noisily congratulating them on their so-called victory. I stood to one side on a stone step, as clear as I could be from the crowd, and continued to search vainly for my James among the sea of bobbing plumed hats. Perhaps there had been some mishap, I thought anxiously, some dreadful accident not yet revealed.

  “Katherine, here!” James called finally, finding me before I’d seen him. Without any further ceremony, he caught me about the waist and swung me down from the step, my petticoats flying about my ankles. This was an advantage of being so slender; to James I was but a feather-weight in his arms, and he could feel as strong as Atlas himself as he lifted me up.

  “You damned rogue!” I laughed with relief and happy delight. “Where have you been, to make me worry over you? I feared you’d been killed, and for no useful reason at all.”

  “Killed by that little romp?” He laughed with me, and kissed me loudly. His handsome face was smudged with soot and dirt, his linen crushed, and his scarlet coat begrimed, yet in an inexplicable way I found him far more attractive like this than when he was pressed and primed for Court. “That was nothing, Katherine, only mere idle sport to make you ladies shiver. You should have been with us at Maastricht to have seen true valor.”

  “I’m thankful I wasn’t,” I said, and kissed him again, my arms wrapped tight around his shoulders as he held me, my slippers not touching the stone steps. I guessed he’d already been drinking with his fellow officers, for he tasted of wine, and smelled of sweat and gunpowder, ripe, manly scents that were more enthralling to me than the sweetest perfumed ambergris. The mock siege had left him with a rare energy I’d not seen from him before, as if the intense ferocity of battle still burned within him; I could feel it as he held me, radiating from him like the rays of the sun.

  Now, if I’d more experience in the world, I would have known that such fires in men can burn others as well as themselves, and I’d have been advised to keep my wits and my defenses sharp, even with a gentleman I regarded as my dearest friend. But I was only sixteen, and though I believed I was as world-weary as anyone else at Court, I still had much to learn.

  And learn it, alas, I would.

  Finally, slowly, James set me down. “If you leave, will you be missed?”

  I glanced across the crowd to where the duchess and the duke were seated at a table with His Majesty. “Her Highness scarce knows I am here at all, let alone to miss me.”

  “Then come with me.” Already he’d taken my hand and begun to lead me through the others.

  “Don’t you wish to sup?” I asked. “Surely you must be hungry.”

  “There’s time enough later.” He grabbed a bottle of wine from a passing footman. “I’ve things to tell you.”

  “Things?” I repeated. “That’s very vague of you, sir, if you please.”

  He laughed. “Good things, Katherine. You must trust me. Excellent things.”

  I did trust him, as I’d come to trust him throughout the weeks at Windsor. That first kiss the day I’d arrived had signaled a change between us. Oh, we still called each other friend and no more, but in the beckoning, shadowy corners of the great castle as well as beneath the spreading trees in the surrounding forests, I’d gradually granted him more and more favors, until only the last remained undone between us. Though we never spoke of it, we both knew where such teasing play would eventually end; in our world, the only mystery was when, not if.

  But as James and I left the castle and headed for our favorite spot overlooking the river, my one thought was what good and excellent things he’d to tell me. He refused, of course, no matter how much I coaxed him to do otherwise, and by way of distracting me from my questions, he urged me to join him in enjoying the wine he’d brought with us. It was no trial; the evening was warm, and the wine was a prize from His Majesty’s cellars. We drank it directly from the bottle’s neck, a coarse informality that made us laugh more, and pause again and again to savor the sa
me vintage on one another’s lips.

  By the time we reached our place by the river, I’d come to rely on his arm to steady my steps, and with a happy sigh, I sank to the soft and fragrant grass, looping my arms around my knees as I gazed up at James. It was a beautiful night, I decided, with the nightingales singing sweetly and the branches over our heads like ever-changing lace. I’d heard that the king himself retreated to this riverbank with his French mistress Lady Portsmouth, and I could well believe it, it was that perfectly romantic.

  “Now you must tell me your great secret,” I ordered. “You have no excuse not to. There is no one to overhear us, and nothing to distract me from giving you my absolute attention.”

  “Pray, Katherine, don’t mock me,” he said, pulling off his coat, sword, and hat before he dropped to the grass beside me. “There’s no sin in wishing to share such news with a dear friend, is there?”

  “I am sorry.” Contritely I leaned close, pressing my breasts into his arm, and kissed him again, all by way of apology. “Please tell me.”

  “Dear Katherine.” He threaded his fingers through my hair, holding my face close to his. “Then I will have you know that I am done with antechambers and drawing rooms.”

  “Done?” I said, giggling silly with the wine, and not following because of it, either. “No more drawing rooms?”

  “Not a one, you goose,” he said, punctuating his words with quick, nipping, small kisses. “Because through the supreme generosity of His Highness, I have been appointed captain to the Earl of Carlisle’s Foot.”

  “Oh, James, I am so happy for you,” I whispered. The significance of his news wasn’t clear to my wine-fuddled head, but I knew it had made him happy, very happy, and thus I would be, too, as any friend would for another.

  Yet it was not as a friend that he kissed me then, nor did my own answering eagerness show any signs of reluctance or hesitation. Instead I only sighed with willing acquiescence as he rolled me back upon the grass, expecting that this would be another pleasant evening of kisses and caresses and gentle laughter, fairly exchanged.

  Whether he sensed in me more willingness than I realized myself, or his blood remained heated from his earlier martial exercises, or we’d simply between us drunk more wine than was wise, I do not know. But I soon understood he intended to make another conquest that night, and that this siege was going to be brief. His kisses had grown fiercely determined, his caresses more demanding. As he moved atop me, I felt at once he’d another sword ready to put to brave use, and my blood quickened with anticipation. I’d heard and spoken bawdry for so long that I believed I knew what to expect next, but no foolish words prepared me for the reality of a man’s desire.

  In an instant (or so it seemed), he’d thrown back my petticoats and unbuttoned his breeches to free his cock. With little ceremony, he pushed my legs apart and entered me. A few brisk shoves, and he was seated, and I was undone, there beside the river beneath the rising moon.

  “Ahh, Katherine, my sweet,” he said, groaning with evident pleasure. “I knew it would be like this between us.”

  I could not say what I’d thought. I felt no pain, only the unfamiliarity of being filled in a place I’d not realized was empty. Nor did I feel much joy, either, lying crushed and small beneath him. Where was the pleasure that inspired poets? What was there in this awkward intimacy that made others willing to risk so much?

  “Let me look at you,” he said, rearing back on his knees and drawing me with him. His breathing was harsh, his handsome face contorted. “Little jade.”

  How ungainly, I thought, and blushed to have him look at my most private self by the moonlight. But it was better not to have his weight upon me, and when to my surprise he slipped his arms beneath my knees, I discovered his movements had become more agreeable, even pleasing. Faith, he was a beautiful man, and I could scarce believe I’d been the one to inspire him to this glorious, rampant state. I gasped, a sweet, shuddering sigh, and he made a grimace of a smile.

  “Show your spirit, Katherine,” he said, his voice ragged as he began to move more forcefully. “Fuck me properly.”

  I wasn’t certain what was proper and what was not. I did recall, however, that liveliness was prized, and tentatively I began to rock with him, and we both gasped at the improvement.

  “If—if I am your jade,” I said breathlessly, writhing my limbs about him to follow the pace that he set. “Then—then you’re my wicked rogue.”

  He chuckled, as much a laugh as he could manage in the circumstances, then groaned, and at last it seemed we were in agreement. It did not take long after that for us to finish the race, and though James did seem to think all was exactly as it should be, I was dazzled by my first spend, and the rare gift he’d given me. Though I was too shy to tell him, I do not think he even knew he’d claimed my maidenhead, and wistfully I wished it had been otherwise. Afterward I wished nothing more than to talk sweetly to him, to kiss and dandle as true lovers should when they lie side by side, yet to my consternation, all he could speak of was his new appointment.

  “I cannot believe the good fortune in it, Katherine,” he said, lying sprawled beside me as if I’d been the one who’d ravished him. With his clothing mussed and askew and his long body at ease, he was a fine, manly sight, one that roused my newborn passions again just to gaze upon him. “This peace is the most damnable thing, with regiments being dismissed every day. To be made a captain for Lord Carlisle is a sizable honor.”

  “But you’re already a captain,” I said, pillowing my head upon his chest. “How can you be made what you already are?”

  “Because it’s a better regiment, sweet,” he explained patiently, absently stroking his fingers across my tousled hair. “I’ll be able to return to France now, and see action again with Louis’s forces.”

  “Back to France?” I said, troubled, and sat upright to see his face. “How can that be, when England’s at peace?”

  “England is, yes,” he said. “But Louis has still more he wishes to claim from the Dutch in the Low Countries, and my regiment will be in his service.”

  “But not soon,” I said, willing it to be so. “It’s nearly September.”

  “That’s why there’s not a moment to be lost,” he said. “I leave to join my regiment tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow!” I exclaimed, my earlier joy shattered as thoroughly as a goblet of crystal dropped on a stone floor. “How can it be so?”

  “It’s so because my orders say it is, and orders must always be obeyed.” He raised my fingers to his lips to kiss. “You don’t know how grateful I am for this night, Katherine. To have you bid me the best farewell that any soldier could wish.”

  “But I do not wish you to be grateful!” I cried, anguished. “I wish you to stay!”

  “My dearest friend,” he said, pulling me back down into his arms. “No wonder I will think of you every day, every minute that I am away.”

  There was no persuading him, for it wasn’t his choice to leave. Even I knew that in the army, orders were orders, and must always be obeyed. And I knew, too, that this new post was indeed a great show of favor for him.

  And yet, and yet . . . how could he leave me when I’d only just become his? What if he were killed in those wretched Low Countries, and never returned to me at all?

  “My own wanton Katherine,” he whispered as he kissed me again. “How I will remember you!”

  Even as my heart was breaking, I lay with James again beneath the nodding boughs, determined to claim as much of him as I could in these last hours together. I stayed in his company nearly all the night through, until at last we said our final farewell and he left me for his lodgings to make the last preparations for his journey.

  I was not brave. I wept as if I’d never stop, and though I remained at Windsor another fortnight with the rest of the Court, then duly followed it back to Whitehall, I was numb to its pleasures and blind to its delights. How else could I feel, without James to share them with me?

  FOR THE N
EXT MONTH, I made the same calculations that women have always made, counting days and whispering prayers against their own ruin. Finally, on the last Monday of September, my courses came, and I wept again from both relief from not bearing a bastard, and from perverse sorrow as well, to have lost that phantom connection to James.

  I wrote volumes of letters, and received few in return. This paucity was easy enough to explain, for what officer in the perilous thick of war has the leisure to sit with his pen like a poet? Surely that was the nature of his letters when they did reach me, hastily scrawled missives without much content beyond how much he missed my companionship. Though hardly the impassioned love letters for which I yearned, I treasured them still, tying them with ribbons and always sleeping with the most recent one tucked in my pillow bier at night.

  When James had first gone away, Father had commiserated with my sorrow, and had the kindness not to recall how often he’d warned me against officers. But when my melancholy persisted through the winter and into the spring of 1675, he began to urge me to rouse myself from pining after James and look about at other gentlemen within the palace. He argued that no lady of seventeen should be reserving herself for some faraway gentleman who’d never pledged himself, nor asked for that kind of devotion from me. Now I know that he was right, but at the time I refused to see his wisdom as anything but cruel cynicism, and instead clung stubbornly to my ribbon-tied letters, and the memory of that one night at Windsor.

  When James wrote that he’d been rewarded again, and that through the favor of the duke, he was now a captain in the Coldstream Guards, a sizable promotion, I rejoiced with him, and proudly waved the letter before Father as proof of James’s merits. But when in June of 1675 he was permitted a brief leave home to England, he repaired not to London to see me, but to the house of his elder brother, Sir Richard Grahme, far away in Cumberland.