A Health Unto His Majesty

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘Marriage,’ he had said, ‘is the greatest solitude, for it makes two but one, and prohibits us from all others.’ A different cry that from the words he had so often spoken immediately before and after their marriage. Nor did he accept this ‘solitude’; nor did he ‘prohibit himself from all others’.

  Life had changed, and she must accept the change; she was grateful for those occasions when she did see him, when, as on this one, he needed her help. It was rarely that he did so and it was not often that they were together.

  Her father worried a great deal about the change in their relationship; he complained bitterly of the way in which George treated her. She was fortunate to be so loved by a great man like her father, but now he blamed himself because he had brought about this marriage; and again and again she soothed him and assured him that he had not wished for the marriage more than she had. All knew that Buckingham neglected her, that he had married her when his fortunes were at a low ebb and it had seemed as though the Monarchy would never be restored, but that marriage with the daughter of an old Parliamentarian was the best a man could make. She was glad that she had turned from Lord Chesterfield to Buckingham; she would never regret it, never, even though those who wished her well were sorry for her. Only recently one of the Duke’s servants had made an attempt on his life when they had spent the night at the Sun Inn at Aldgate after returning from the Newmarket races. George had quickly disarmed the man. But the affair became widely known; and it was disconcerting that the point of the story should not be that the Duke was almost done to death by a mad servant, but that he should have been about to spend the night with his own wife.

  Such slights, such humiliations, she accepted. They were part of the price which a plain and homely woman paid for union with one of the greatest Dukes in the country.

  Now she asked her maids: ‘How like you my gown?’

  And they answered: ‘Madam, it is beautiful.’

  They were sincere. They really thought so.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mary quickly, ‘if I could but get me a new face as easily as I get me a new gown, then I might be a beauty.’

  The maids were excited because they knew that this was to be a very grand ball, and the King himself was to be present.

  They did not know the purpose of the ball.

  George had explained it to his wife. It was one of his plots and in this his conspirators were Lord Sandwich and Henry Bennet – who was now Lord Arlington.

  ‘We cannot,’ George had said, ‘allow the King to become morose. He neglects his state business and he is not so amusing as he once was. The King wants one thing to make him his merry self again; and we are going to give it to him: Frances Stuart.’

  ‘How will you do this?’ she had asked. ‘Is it not for Frances Stuart to make the necessary decision?’

  ‘We shall be very, very merry,’ said the Duke. ‘There will be dancing and games such as Frances delights in. There shall be drink . . . potent drink, and we must see that Frances partakes of it freely.’

  Mary turned a little pale.

  ‘You mean that she is to be made incapable of knowing what she does!’

  ‘Now you are shocked,’ said the Duke lightly. ‘That is your puritan stock showing itself. My dear Mary, stop being a hopeless prude, I beg of you. Move with the times, my dear. Move with the times.’

  ‘But this girl is so young and . . .’

  ‘And wily. She has played her games long enough.’

  ‘George, I . . .’

  ‘You will do nothing but be hostess to the guests; and make sure that we have a rich apartment ready for the lovers when they need it.’

  She had wanted to protest; but she could not bear his displeasure. If she must play such a part for the sake of her Duke, she had not alternative but to do so.

  She took one last look at herself and went downstairs to be ready to greet her guests.

  And when she was in that glittering assembly she knew at once that her jewels were too numerous, the bright scarlet of her gown unbecoming to one of her colouring; she realized afresh that she was the ugly Duchess of the most handsome of Dukes.

  *

  Mrs Sarah wanted a word with her mistress, and she wanted it in private.

  Barbara left her friends to hear what her servant had to say. She knew that Mrs Sarah, while often denouncing her to her face, was loyal.

  Mrs Sarah began: ‘Now, if I tell you something your ladyship won’t like to hear, will you promise to hear me out without throwing a stool at me?’

  ‘What is it?’ said Barbara.

  ‘Your promise first! It’s something you ought to know.’

  ‘Then unless you tell me this instant I’ll have the clothes torn from your back and I’ll lay about you with a stick myself.’

  ‘Now listen to me, Madam.’

  ‘I am listening. Come closer, you fool. What is it?’

  ‘There is a ball this night at my lord Buckingham’s.’

  ‘And what of that? The fool can give a ball if he wishes to, without asking me. Let him sing his silly songs; let him do his imitations . . . I’ll warrant he has a good one of me.’

  ‘The King is to be present.’

  Barbara was alert. ‘How know you this?’

  ‘My husband, who is cook to my lord Sandwich . . .’

  ‘I see . . . I see. The King is there; and is that sly slug there with him?’

  ‘She is, Madam.’

  ‘Playing card-houses, I’ll swear. Let them. That’s all the game he’ll play with that lily-livered virgin.’

  ‘Mayhap not this night.’

  ‘What do you mean, woman?’

  ‘There is a plot to bring them together this night. My lord Arlington . . .’

  ‘The pompous pig!’

  ‘And my lord Sandwich . . .’

  ‘That prancing ape!’

  ‘And my lord Buckingham . . .’

  ‘That foul hog!’

  ‘I beg of you remember, Madam, stay calm.’

  ‘Stay calm! While that merry trio work against me? For that is what they would do, Sarah. They strike at me. They use that simpering little ninny to do so, but they strike at me. By God and all the saints, I’ll go there and I’ll let them know I understand their games. I’ll throw their silly cards in their faces and I’ll . . .’

  ‘Madam, remember, so much is at stake. I beg of you do nothing rash. She remains calm. That is why she keeps his regard.’

  ‘Are you telling me what to do, you . . . you . . .’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ said Sarah. ‘I don’t want you to hurt yourself.’

  ‘Hurt myself! It is not I who shall get hurt. Do you think I do not know how to look after myself?’

  ‘Yes, Madam, I do think that. I think that, had you been calmer and more loving and not so ready to fly into tantrums, His Majesty would have continued to love you even though, such being the royal nature, he hankered after Frances Stuart. Let me finish what I began to say. This night they plan to bring this affair to a conclusion. They will so bemuse Mrs Stuart this night that it will be easy to overcome her resistance. And when that is done, there will be the apartment waiting and the royal lover to conduct her to it.’

  ‘It shall not be. I’ll go there and drag the little fool away, if I have to pull her by her golden hair.’

  ‘Madam, think first. Be calm. Do not demean yourself. There is one other who would not wish for the surrender of Mrs Stuart. Why not let her do your work this night? It would be better so if you would hold His Majesty’s regard, for I verily believe that she who takes from him the pleasure he anticipates this night will not long hold his love.’

  Barbara did not answer immediately; she continued to look at Mrs Sarah.

  *

  The two women faced each other.

  This is the woman, thought Catherine, who has destroyed my happiness. She it was who, as a mere name long ago in Lisbon, filled me with misgivings.

  Barbara thought: I would not barter my beauty for her plain mien
even though the crown went with it. Poor Charles, he is indeed gallant to feign tenderness for such a one. She could never have appealed to him during all those weeks when he played the loving husband.

  Barbara said: ‘Your Majesty, this is not a time when two women should weigh their words. A plot is afoot this night to make an innocent girl a harlot. That is putting it plainly, but it is none the less the truth. The young girl is Frances Stuart, and I beg of Your Majesty to do something to prevent this.’

  Catherine felt her heart beat very fast; she said: ‘I do not understand your meaning, Lady Castlemaine.’

  ‘Buckingham is giving a ball. The King is there. And so is Mrs Stuart. It is the Duke’s plan to make her so bemused that she will be an easy victim.’

  ‘No,’ cried Catherine. ‘No!’

  ‘’Tis so, Your Majesty. You know the girl. She is not very intelligent but she is virtuous. Can you stand aside and allow this to happen?’

  ‘But no,’ said Catherine.

  ‘Then may I humbly beg of Your Majesty to prevent it?’

  ‘How could I prevent that on which the King has set his heart?’

  ‘You are the Queen. The girl is of your household. Your Majesty, if you attended this ball . . . if you brought her back with you to your apartments, because you had need of her services, none could say you nay. The King would not. You know that he would never humiliate you . . . on a matter of etiquette such as this would be.’

  Catherine felt her cheeks burning. She gazed at the insolent woman, and she knew her motive for wishing to rescue Frances had nothing to do with the preservation of Frances’s virtue. Yet she could not allow Charles to do this. She could not allow Frances to become his unwilling mistress.

  She was not sure what it was that prompted her to act as she did. It might have been jealousy. It might have been for the sake of Frances’s virtue, for the sake of Charles’s honour. She was sure that in all his numerous love affairs there could never yet have been an unwilling partner.

  She turned to Barbara and said: ‘You are right. I will go to the ball.’

  *

  It was three o’clock when the Queen arrived.

  By this time the fun was fast and the games very wild and merry. Frances, the centre of attraction, had been induced to drink far more than usual; she was flushed and her eyes bright with the excitement which romping games could always rouse in her.

  The King had scarcely left her side all the evening. Three pairs of eyes watched Frances – Buckingham’s, Arlington’s and those of Sandwich – and their owners were sure that very soon Frances would be ready to fall into the arms of the King.

  And then the Queen arrived.

  Buckingham and his Duchess must declare their delight in this unexpected honour. They hoped Her Majesty would stay and join the dance.

  She danced for a while, and then she declared that she would return to Whitehall and take Frances Stuart with her.

  If Frances left there was nothing to detain the King at the ball; so the evening ended very differently from the way in which it had been planned, and Frances and the King left for Whitehall in the company of the Queen.

  *

  Affairs of state were occupying the King continuously, so that he had little time for following pleasure. The Parliament were declaring that the damage inflicted on English ships was doing a great deal of harm to English trade. The merchants were demanding that the Dutch be taught a lesson. Dutch fishermen met English fishermen in the North Sea and fought to the death. On the Africa coasts Dutch and English sailors were already at war. In Amsterdam scurrilous pamphlets were published concerning the life of the King of England; and pictures were distributed showing a harassed King pursued by women who tried to drive him in all directions.

  Charles was anxious. He loathed the thought of war, which he believed could bring little profit even to the victors. He had seen much of the sufferings due to war; his thoughts went back to that period of his life which would ever live vividly in his memory. He remembered Edgehill where he and James had come near to capture; but more clearly than anything that had ever happened to him would be the memory of disaster at Worcester and those weeks when he had skulked, disguised as a yokel, afraid to show his face in the country of which he called himself King.

  But he knew that his wishes would carry little weight, for the whole country was calling out for war with the Dutch.

  Every day, instead of sauntering in the Park he was on the Thames, inspecting that Fleet of which he was more proud than anything else he possessed.

  He had told of his pride in it to the Parliament when he had asked them for money to maintain that Fleet.

  ‘I have been able to let our neighbours see that I can defend myself and my subjects against their insolence. By borrowing liberally from myself out of my own stores, and with the kind and cheerful assistance which the City of London hath given me, I have a Fleet now worthy of the English nation and not inferior to any that hath set out in any age.’

  After that speech he had been voted the great sum of two and a half million pounds for the equipment and maintenance of the Fleet; and although his pride in it was high, he was fervently hoping to avoid making open war on the Dutch.

  That winter was the coldest that men remembered; but the great news was not of the phenomenal weather; it concerned the exploits of Dutchmen, for if Charles had a great Fleet, so had they, and they were as much at home on the high seas as were the English.

  Barbara had given birth to another child – this time a daughter whom she named Charlotte. She declared she was the King’s child, and this time the King was too immersed in matters of state to deny this.

  By March it was necessary to declare war on Holland, and the whole country was wild with excitement. The City of London built a man-of-war which they called Loyal London, and the Duke of York took command of the Fleet.

  The spring came, warm and welcome after the long, hard winter, and all at home waited news of the encounter between the Dutch and English navies. In London the gunfire out at sea could be heard, and the nation was tense yet very confident. They did not know that the money voted by Parliament for the conduct of war – a sum which seemed vast to them – was inadequate. There was one man who knew this and suffered acute anxiety. This was the King; he knew the state of the country’s finances; he knew that he could not go on indefinitely subscribing to the maintenance of the Fleet in war out of his inadequate allowance; he knew that the Dutch were wealthier than the English, and that they were as worthy seamen.

  When the news came of the victory over the Dutch, when the bells of the city pealed out and the citizens ran into the streets to snatch up anything that would make a bonfire, the King was less inclined to gaiety than any; he had heard news that Berkeley – recently become the Earl of Falmouth – had perished in the battle. He had known Berkeley well, and he guessed that he would be but one of many to suffer if the war continued.

  Then in the streets of London there appeared a more cruel enemy than the Dutch.

  In that warm April a man, coming from St Paul’s into Cheapside, was overcome by his sickness, and lay down on the cobbles since he could go no farther. Shivering and delirious, he lay there, and in the morning he was dead; and those who approached him saw on his breast the dreaded macula, and, shuddering, ran from him. But by that time others were falling to the pestilence. From the Strand to Aldgate men and women on their ordinary business would stagger and hurry blindly to their homes. Some of those stricken in the streets could go no farther; they lay down and died.

  The plague had come to London.

  *

  Who could rejoice wholeheartedly? It was true that the English had taken eighteen capital ships from the Dutch off Harwich, and had destroyed another fourteen. It was known that Admiral Obdam had been blown up with his crew and would no longer worry the English. And all this had been achieved for the loss of one ship. It was true that many good sailors had been lost – Falmouth among them – with Marlborough and Po
rtland and the Admirals Hawson and Sampson.

  But the plague was on the increase, and its effect was already being severely felt in London. The weather was hotter than usual after the bleak winter. Stench rose from the gutters; refuse was emptied from windows by people who could not leave their houses since they kept a plague victim there. Men and women were dying in the streets. It was dangerous to give succour to any who fell fainting by the roadside. All indisposition was suspect. Many were frightened into infection in that plague- and fear-ridden atmosphere. Death was in the air and terror stalked the streets.

  The river was congested with barges carrying away from the city those who were fortunate enough to be able to leave the plague spots.

  The Court had retired, first to Hampton, and then, when the plague stretched its greedy maw beyond the metropolis, farther afield to Salisbury.

  Albemarle took command of London and, with the resourcefulness of a great general, made plans for taking care of the infected and avoiding the spread of the plague. He arranged that outlying parishes should be ready to take in all those who could arrive uninfected from the city.

  London continued to suffer in the heat.

  Grass was now growing among the cobbles, for the business of every day had ceased. Those merchants who could do so, left their businesses; those who could not, stayed to nurse their families and to die with them. Trade had come to a standstill and the city was like a dead town. Those who ventured into its streets did so muffled in close garments covering their mouths that they might not breathe the polluted air.

  Almost every door bore a red cross with the inscription ‘Lord Have Mercy Upon Us’ to warn all to keep away because the plague was in the house; by night the pest-carts roamed the streets to the tolling of a dismal bell and the dreadful cry of ‘Bring out your dead’.

  By the time that terrible year was over about 130,000 people had died of the plague in England. The citizens returned to London to take possession of their property, but the losses of life and trade were so great that the country, still engaged in war, was in a more pitiable plight than it had ever been in during the whole of its history.