by Jean Plaidy
Now she waited in her bedchamber and joked with those who had gathered round her to witness what they knew to be the humiliating dismissal of the Chancellor.
‘Who was he to forbid his wife to see me!’ demanded Barbara. ‘I was the King’s mistress; his daughter was the Duke’s before she duped him into making her his wife. And do you remember how he disowned her . . . how he declared he would rather see her James’s mistress than his wife! Yet he thought his family too fine . . . too virtuous to consort with me. Old fool! Mayhap he wishes he had not been so fine and virtuous now.’
‘He has left the King,’ cried one of her friends. ‘He comes across the gardens now.’
Barbara ran out into her aviary that she might not miss the sight of the old man’s humiliation.
‘There he goes!’ she called. ‘There goes the man who was the Chancellor. Look you! He holds not his head so high as he once did.’
Then she broke into peals of mocking laughter, in which her companions joined.
Clarendon walked quickly on as though he did not hear them.
*
Clarendon’s enemies, led by Buckingham, were not content with Clarendon’s dismissal. They were determined to arraign him on a charge of high treason. Charges were drawn up, among which was one accusing him of betraying the King’s confidences to foreign Powers, and as this was nothing less than high treason it was clear that his enemies were after the ex-Chancellor’s blood.
Charles was perturbed. He agreed that Clarendon was too old for his task, that his manner caused nothing but trouble to all those – including the King himself – who came into contact with him; he knew that his enemies had determined to destroy him.
He wished to be rid of Clarendon; yet he would not stand by and see an old friend forced to the executioner’s block if he could help it.
He sent word in secret to Clarendon, telling him that unless he left the country at once he would find himself facing a trial for high treason.
Clarendon at last saw reason.
On the night after he had received Charles’s message he was on his way to Calais.
*
Barbara was delighted with the dismissal of Clarendon. She felt that her ascendancy over Charles was regained. She was congratulating herself on the disgrace of Frances Stuart who, she was sure, had wounded the King’s amour propre to such an extent that she would never be taken back into favour again.
Barbara laughed over the affairs of Mrs Stuart and Clarendon with her newest lover – little Henry Jermyn, one of the worst rakes at Court, and one of the smallest men to be met there; it was amusing to have for lovers the little Jermyn and the six-foot-tall King. Barbara was momentarily contented.
As for Catherine, she was hopeful. She did not believe that Charles was really in love with Barbara, and she knew that he was deeply wounded by the elopement of Frances; she often rode out with the King, and the people who, blaming Clarendon for the Dutch disaster, had taken Charles back completely into their affection, would cheer them.
Everywhere the King went was sung the latest song from the play Catch that Catch Can or The Musical Companion; and it was sung wholeheartedly.
‘Here’s a health unto His Majesty,
With a fa, la, la;
Conversion to his enemies,
With a fa, la, la.
And he that will not pledge his health,
I wish him neither wit nor wealth,
Nor yet a rope to hang himself,
With a fa, la, la.’
Catherine would discuss with Charles his plans for rebuilding the City and, as he seemed to cease mourning over past failures and had his eyes firmly fixed on the future, she found that she could follow his lead.
If only she could have a child! Then she believed that, with his own legitimate son and a wife who was ready to love him so tenderly, she and Charles could build a very happy relationship. God knew that she was willing and she could not believe that he, who was the kindest man in the world, could feel otherwise.
Charles believed that the new cabinet council would succeed where Clarendon had failed. This was already beginning to be called the ‘Cabal’ because of the first letters of the names of the five men who were its members: Clifford, Arlington, Buckingham, Ashley, and Lauderdale. He was seeing Christopher Wren every day, and it seemed that before long a new City would spring up to replace the old one of wooden houses and narrow streets.
Catherine was delighted to hear good news from her own country, and to learn that her brother, Don Pedro, had now succeeded in deposing his brother Alphonso; for Alphonso had become duller-witted as time passed and now, being almost an imbecile, it had seemed that unless there could be a peaceful abdication and the security of Portugal assured by Pedro, the Spaniards might march and subdue the disunited land.
Everything is working towards some good end, decided Catherine.
But one day Donna Maria asked her if she had noticed that the King was visiting the theatre more regularly than usual. Donna Maria had heard that there was a reason for this, other than the play itself.
*
Barbara was fuming.
‘I can scarcely believe it!’ she cried. ‘So His Majesty will demean himself as far as that! He will go to a theatre and, because some minx on the stage leers boldly enough, the King is delighted. The King is in love with a low playing-wench.’
‘Madam,’ said Mrs Sarah, ‘I beg of you make no scenes in public.’
Barbara slapped the woman’s face, but not too hard. She valued Mrs Sarah too much.
‘Madam,’ said Mrs Sarah, standing back a little and placing her hands on her hips, ‘the King is enamoured of a wench at the play. She dances a merry jig, and that pleases him.’
‘A pretty state of affairs! No wonder the young men of this City are such that modest maidens dare not go abroad. No wonder no woman is safe!’
Mrs Sarah had turned aside to hide a titter.
‘Don’t dare laugh at me, woman, or you’ll wish you’d never been born.’
‘Come, my lady, you’re not afraid to go abroad!’
‘By God, no!’ cried Barbara. ‘Nor to go to the theatre and to order the crowd to pelt the lewd creature with oranges and to hoot her off the stage.’
‘The King would not be pleased.’
‘The King will not be pleased! And should I be pleased to see him so demean himself?’
Mrs Sarah turned away. Even she dared not say that there were some who would consider he demeaned himself far more by his subservience to Lady Castlemaine than by any light fancy he might have for a play-actress.
Barbara demanded that her hat with the yellow plume be brought for her, her carriage called.
‘You’re not going to the play, my lady?’ cried Mrs Sarah.
‘Of a certainty I am going to the play,’ retorted Barbara.
With the patch under her right eye to set off the brilliance of those features, and the small spot by her mouth to call attention to the fullness of her lips, and ablaze with jewels to the value of some £40,000, she set out to see Dryden’s new play The Maiden Queen, for the part of Florimel was played by an Eleanor Gwyn, and it was said that the King was somewhat taken with the actress, although he was more deeply involved with another play-girl named Moll Davies.
‘Play-girls!’ muttered Barbara. ‘This is too much to be borne.’ She would sit in her box – next to the King’s – and she would look haughtily at the stage, and then perhaps he would compare her with the low creature who, it was said, had caught his fancy with her merry jig and playing of a part.
She was aware of the interest of the pit as she took her place in the box. She looked over their heads and appeared to be concentrating on the stage. She liked the common people to stare at her, and she was glad she was glittering with jewels, and that the yellow plume in her hat so became her. The orange girls stared at her in candid admiration; all eyes in the house were on her. The King and his brother, however, were watching the stage, and that maddened her.
The King knew Barbara was there; but he was growing very indifferent to Barbara – even to the scenes she would create. He kept his eyes on the stage.
But now one of the players had caught Barbara’s attention. He was one of the handsomest men she had ever set eyes on, and what physique! Her eyes glittered and narrowed; mayhap there was an attraction about these players.
She turned to the woman who had accompanied her, and pointed to the man.
‘Charles Hart, my lady. Eleanor Gwyn, they say, is his mistress.’
Barbara felt an inclination to laugh. She said to her woman: ‘You will go to Mr Charles Hart and tell him that he may call on me.’
‘Call on your ladyship!’
‘Are you deaf, fool? That was what I said. And tell him there should be no delay. I will see him at eight of the clock this night.’
The woman was alarmed, but, like all those in Barbara’s service, realizing the need for immediate obedience, left Barbara’s box.
Barbara sat back, vaguely aware of the King in his box, of the girl on the stage, and the play which was about to end.
‘I am resolved to grow fat and look young till forty,’ said the impudent little player, ‘and then slip out of the world with the first wrinkle and the reputation of five and twenty.’
The pit roared its approval and called: ‘Dance your jig, Nelly. Dance your jig!’
The girl had come forward and was talking to them, and the King was laughing and applauding with all those in the pit.
Charles Hart! thought Barbara. ‘What a handsome man!’ Why had she not come to the theatre to look for a lover before now? And how piquant to take the lover of that brazen creature who was daring to throw languorous glances at the King!
*
The King was visiting Barbara less frequently; his relationship with the Queen had settled into a friendly one, but Catherine knew that she was as far as ever from reaching that relationship which she had enjoyed during the honeymoon. And it seemed to her that morals at the Court were growing more and more lax with the passing of the years.
The affair of Buckingham was characteristic of the conduct of the times. The Earl of Shrewsbury had challenged the Duke to a duel on account of his misconduct with Anna Shrewsbury, and on a cold January day they met. Their seconds engaged each other and one was killed, another badly wounded, so Buckingham and Shrewsbury were left to fight alone. Buckingham fatally wounded Shrewsbury, and a week or so later Shrewsbury was dead. There was an uproar in the Commons against the duellists even before Shrewsbury died, and the King promised that he would impose the extreme penalty in future on any who engaged in duelling; sober people were disgusted that one of their chief ministers should have engaged himself in a duel over his mistress; and when Shrewsbury died, Buckingham came very near to being expelled from the Cabal. Wild rumours were circulated. It was said that Lady Shrewsbury, disguised as a page, had held her lover’s horse and witnessed her husband’s murder, and that the two lovers, unable to suppress their lust, satisfied it there and then, while Buckingham was still bespattered with the husband’s blood.
Buckingham was reckless and quite indifferent to public abuse. When Lady Shrewsbury was a widow he took her to Wallingford House, where the Duchess of Buckingham was living, and when she protested that she and her husband’s mistress could not live under the same roof, he answered her coolly: ‘I did think that also, Madam. Therefore I ordered your coach to carry you back to your father’s house.’
Some of those who followed the course of events were shocked; more were merely amused. The King had his own seraglio; it was understandable that those about him should follow his example. Lady Castlemaine had never contented herself with one lover; as she grew older she seemed to find the need for more and more.
After her association with Charles Hart she discovered a fancy for other players.
One day, masked and wrapped in a cloak, she went to St Bartholomew’s Fair and saw there a rope-dancer – who immediately fascinated her. His name was Jacob Hill, she was told, and after his performance she sent for him.
He proved so satisfactory that she gave him a salary which was far greater than anything he had dreamed of earning; and thus, she said, he could give up his irksome profession for a more interesting one.
Like the King, she was learning that there was a great deal of fun to be had outside Court circles.
Catherine tried to resign herself, to content herself because the news from Portugal was good. Her young brother Pedro had contrived to establish himself firmly on the throne; he had arranged that his sister-in-law, Alphonso’s wife, should obtain a divorce and marry him; Alphonso was put quietly away and all seemed well in Portugal. Catherine had hopes that one day the dowry promised by her mother would be paid to Charles; and she marvelled at the goodness of her husband who never but once – and that when he was deeply incensed with her for denying him the one thing he had asked of her – had mentioned the fact that the dowry (the very reason for his marrying her) had not been paid in full.
So, saddened yet resigned, she continued to love her husband dearly and to hope that one day, when he tired of gaiety and his mistresses, he would remember the wife who, for the brief period of a honeymoon at Hampton Court, had been the happiest woman in the world because she had believed her husband loved her.
Then Frances Stuart came back to Court.
*
The King received the news calmly. All were watching him to see what his reaction would be. Barbara was alert. She had her troupe of lovers, but she was as eager as ever to keep the favour of the King; she still behaved as maîtresse en titre, but she was aware that the King knew of her many lovers, and the fact that he raised no objection was disconcerting. What would happen, she asked herself, now that Frances had returned? Frances, the wife of the Duke of Richmond and Lennox, might, as a married woman, find herself more free to indulge in a love affair with the King than she had been as an unmarried one. If she did, Barbara believed she would have a formidable rival indeed.
Catherine was uneasy. She knew that a faction about the King had never ceased to agitate for a divorce, and that the powerful Buckingham was at the head of this contingent. Catherine had proved, they said, that she could not bear children; the King had proved that he was still potent. It was unsound policy, declared these men, to continue in a marriage which was fruitless. England needed an heir. These men were influenced by another consideration: If the King died childless, his brother, the Duke of York, would follow him, and the Duke of York had not only adopted the Catholic religion but he was the enemy of many of these men.
Catherine knew that they were her bitter enemies. She was unmoved by the arrival of Frances. Frances could not now become the wife of the King since she had a husband of her own; and if she became the King’s mistress, she would now be one of many.
But when the King and Frances met, the King received her coolly. It was clear, said everyone, that when she had run away with the Duke of Richmond and Lennox she had spoiled her chances with the King.
*
It was not long after Frances’s return to Court that all had an opportunity of understanding the depth of Charles’s affection for his distant cousin.
Frances was now even more beautiful than when she had left. Marriage with the Duke had sobered her; she was less giddy; if she still played card-houses it was with an abstracted air. The Duke, her husband, was not only besotted, he was indifferent; he had wished to marry her only because the King had so ardently desired her; in fact, Frances had quickly realized that her marriage had been one of the biggest mistakes of her life. She had her apartments in Somerset House, the home of the King’s mother, Henrietta Maria, for she was not invited t
o take up residence in her old apartments in Whitehall. It was very different being merely the wife of the Duke of Richmond and Lennox and a woman who had offended the King so deeply that she would never be taken back into his favour again. There were fewer people to visit her and applaud all she did. Buckingham and Arlington, those devoted admirers, seemed now to have forgotten her existence. Lady Castlemaine laughed at her insolently whenever they met. Barbara was determined to flaunt her continued friendship with the King, which had lasted nearly ten years; Frances’s spell of favour had been so very brief.
‘The King must amuse himself,’ Barbara said in her hearing. ‘He takes up with women one week and by the next he finds it difficult to recall their names.’
So Frances, the petted darling of the Court, the King’s most honoured friend, found herself neglected because she no longer held the King’s favour. There was no point in seeking to please her; for what good could her friendship bring them? It was astonishing how many of those who had sworn she was the most beautiful creature on Earth now scarcely seemed to notice her.
She was beautiful – none more beautiful at the Court; she was far less foolish than she had been, but her circle of friends had dwindled astonishingly and she was often lonely in her rooms at Somerset House. Now and then she thought of returning to the country.
Sitting solitarily, building card-houses, she thought often of the old days; she thought of the charm of the King and compared it with the ungracious manners of her husband; she thought of the Duke’s indifference to her and of the King’s continual care.
She covered her face with her hands and wept. If ever she had been in love with anyone it had been with Charles.
She left her card-house to collapse on to the table, and went to a mirror; her face looked back at her, perfect in contour and colouring; lacking the simplicity it had possessed when Charles had so eagerly sought her, but surely losing nothing of beauty for that.
She must go to Court; she must seek him out. She would humbly beg his pardon, not for refusing to become his mistress – he would not expect that – but because she had run away and married against his wishes, because she had flouted him, because she had been such a fool as to prefer the drunken Duke to her passionate, but so kind and affectionate King.