Виктория Холт - Courting Her Highness

“On the Duchess’s orders, Mrs. Danvers.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Danvers slowly, “on the Duchess’s orders. If it were not so I would have a word to say to Her Grace about Mrs. Hill.”

“You can’t say the creature gives herself airs, Mrs. Danvers.”

“Indeed no. She creeps about so that you can never be sure when she has entered a room.”

“It struck me, Mrs. Danvers, that Her Majesty does not fret for the Duchess so much as she did at one time … now that she has her good Hill to look to her comfort.”

“I have noticed it,” said Mrs. Danvers. “But she was put there by Her Grace so there is nothing we can do … as yet.”

Prince George was dozing. It was those two hours in the afternoon when Anne and her husband were together and more and more of the time George spent asleep.

He is growing fatter, mused Anne. Poor dear George. When he is not eating and drinking, he is sleeping; and he wheezes more than ever. Perhaps it is good for him to rest.

She wanted to talk to him this afternoon. Coming from Windsor to St. James’s the people had cheered her. They had called: “Long Live the Queen. Long Live Good Queen Anne.” Good. She wanted to be good. People in rags had called to her and she fancied she had seen hope in their looks. They hoped because she was their Queen, and she did not want to fail them. Dear Mr. Freeman was helping to make England great abroad. They were saying he was the finest general in the world. That was good. Perhaps he would make a quick conquest and there would be peace so that she and her ministers would have an opportunity of bringing prosperity home. She did not care to see her subjects in need. And they had called to her: “Good Queen Anne!”

“George,” she said. “I want to be good. I want to deserve the name Good Queen Anne.”

“Eh?” said George.

She leaned towards the sleeping figure in the chair and touched him lightly with her fan. “I saw the poor today, George, on our drive. I want to be good to them so that they call me Good Queen Anne from their hearts.”

“Goot,” he murmured. “You are very goot, my love. Nobody in the vorld so goot as my angel.”

Dear George. But a little dull. The park had looked so beautiful and the Mall … the dear Mall. Half a mile of beautiful trees, planted in even rows on either side of the broad gravel path. The talented French gardener Le Notre had made it for Uncle Charles and after that the aviary of Birdcage Walk. And then the Palace with its battlements and towers which Henry VIII had ordered Holbein to design; it was built, Anne’s father used to tell her, on the site where once had stood a hospital for maiden lepers.

Maiden lepers! Anne shivered; and some of those poor people who had cheered her on her way had been diseased, she had noticed.

That was why she was thinking as she lay back in her chair, her eyes closed, that she would like to bring prosperity and better living conditions to her subjects. What a pleasure it had been to entertain that bodice-maker and his wife! How grateful they had been! The woman—who talked more than the man—had said that the happiest moment of her life had been when the Queen had taken the watch from her side and presented it to her. The watch! Not the title she had gained! Not the fine clothes she had worn! “Every time I touch it I say to myself: My hands are where the Queen’s have been. And I feel some goodness comes to me and I’m proud and happy to wear something which Your Majesty has touched.”

Well, the heirs of St. Edward the Confessor were said to have a healing touch. And was she not in the direct line of Kings? Some sovereigns had practised the healing touch. Henry III was one. Edward I and II were others; and it was Edward III whose alchymist Raymond Lully actually made gold for him. On the coins he made were impressed the figures of angels and these coins were supposed to have a healing power and if they were bound on the arms of those who suffered from scrofula by royal hands the patients were said to be healed. Scrofula had become known as the King’s Evil, and this practice which ensured the popularity of sovereigns, was known as touching for the King’s Evil.

To have sufferers brought to her that she might cure them was a blessing Anne could bestow on her subjects.

“George,” she said, “I have decided that I will bring back the custom of touching for the King’s Evil.”

“Eh?” mumbled George.

She looked at him in tender exasperation.

“Oh George, George, you sleep your life away. Hill! Come here, Hill.”

Hill came at once. She always did. Vaguely Anne wondered where she secreted herself so that she was always within earshot.

“Ah, Hill, there you are. I have made a decision. I was so moved by the sight of some of my subjects this morning … so many of them poor and ill … that I have decided to bring back the custom of touching for the King’s Evil. Why, Hill, if I can bring some of those poor people back to health I should be most happy. And it is a duty.”

“Your Majesty is so good.”

“I intend to do all I can for my people, Hill.”

Hill merely nodded and turned away as though she was afraid of betraying how moved she was.

“Now, Hill, I want you to write a letter for me. My hands are troubling me today. I want you to write to Lord Godolphin. I will sign it. Tell him of my decision. Now what shall we say. ‘This is our will and pleasure.…’ ”

“Our will and pleasure …” wrote Abigail.

Anne smiled at the head bent over the paper. Small, and meek. Dear Hill, she never argued; she never attempted to advise.

What a comfort she was! And how peaceful it was living with such a creature in close attendance.

Anne was seated in the Banqueting Hall in St. James’s Palace. About her chair were the officials and her chaplains. The sick and the infirm were crowding into the hall and they gazed at her with adoration. She felt happier than she had since the death of her son.

On the arm of her chaplain were white ribbons to which had been fixed the pieces of “angel” gold; these the Queen would place with her own hands about the necks of the sufferers.

The service was beginning and Anne, who was deeply religious, felt exalted. She believed then that the most important duty of all was to maintain the Church and this she would do no matter what opposition she had to face. There were some who had not been in favour of this Touching ceremony; but she had made them understand that it was her will.

One of the Chaplains was reading the Collect: “Prevent us, O Lord, with Thy most gracious favour, and further us with Thy continued help, that in all our works begun, continued and ending in Thee, we may glorify Thy holy name, and finally, by Thy mercy, attain everlasting life, through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

And then the reading:

“They shall lay their hands on the sick, and they shall recover.…”

Anne looked down at her beautiful hands—so smooth and white. How happy it made her to bestow this gift, and what greater gift was there than that of healing?

Now they were bringing forward the sick to be presented to her.

One by one they knelt before her and she stroked their arms and their faces; then she attached the ribbons with the angel gold to their arms while the chaplain murmured the words:

“God give a blessing to this work, and grant that those sick persons on whom the Queen lays her hands, may recover, through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

When the ceremony was over, and she retired to her private apartments, she sent for Abigail.

“I feel happier than I have since I lost my boy,” she told her.

“Your Majesty is so good,” replied Abigail with tears in her eyes.

“The service was beautiful, Hill.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I believe there are some in this realm who would seek to undermine the Church. They will never have my support.”

“Nor mine, Madam,” said Abigail quietly.

It was so pleasant afterwards to talk of the ceremony with Hill. The dear creature had such a way of listening which was very comforting and pleasant.

Robert Harley, with his friend and disciple Henry St. John, stood on the edge of the crowd which was assembled near the pillory in Cornhill.

St. John knew that Harley was deeply disturbed, more so than he would admit; and the reason was this affair of Defoe.

Harley had said: “There is one of the greatest writers of our age. I want him to work for me.”

And before he could put that project into action here was Defoe—a prisoner during the Queen’s pleasure and sentenced to stand three times in the Pillory—at Cornhill, at Cheapside and at Temple Bar.

“I could have warned him,” muttered Harley. “I wish I had seen that pamphlet of his before it had been published.”

“It’s a brilliant pamphlet,” said St. John.

“Too brilliant. That’s the trouble, I’ve told you that the pen is a mighty weapon, St. John. It is because others are beginning to realize this that Defoe stands where he is today.”

“He’s coming now.…” warned St. John.

And there he was, the unrepentant scribe, the martyr to his cause, riding in the cart on his way to the pillory. This was usually the moment for which the crowd waited—when they would see the poor condemned wretch set in the wooden frame, his hands hanging before him, his neck and head in the holes provided for them, and himself helpless to face the scorn and fury of the mob. It was the custom to pelt the victim with rotten fruit and vegetables, stinking fish and any filth that could be found; many died of exposure to a cruel mob. And that this should be the fate of a man of great talent, perhaps genius—particularly a man who could be useful to him—filled Harley with indignation.

“He was a fool,” said St. John.

“He wrote nothing that was not true.”

“But this pamphlet of his The Shortest way with the Dissenters—why it gave pleasure to no one.”

“It gave pleasure to me, St. John, as all good writing must.”

“But the sentiments, Master, the sentiments.”

“All this conformity controversy in Parliament nowadays needs to be ridiculed, and that is precisely what Defoe did.”

“Yes, but in such a way that the High-Flyers took him seriously.”

“These High Churchmen take themselves so seriously that they think everyone else does the same. They have no humour—and that’s what Defoe has. If they hadn’t at first supported the Pamphlet before they realized Defoe was writing with his tongue in his cheek, they would not have made this trouble for him. So he is prosecuted for libelling the Church.”

“And what now?”

“God knows if he’ll withstand the pillory. If he survives Cornhill, it’ll be Cheapside tomorrow and the day after that Temple Bar. Come away, St. John. I don’t care to see the man subjected to insults.”

“Is there nothing we can do?”

Harley shook his head. “I shall do my best to have him released, but that would take time. If only I could talk to the Queen.”

“Well, why not?”

“I need to bring her to my way of thinking and I could not do that by a formal visit. I need to be on terms with her … as Marlborough is.”

“Ah, he has the Duchess to help him.”

“Yes and Anne dotes on the woman. Would that I could find someone to plead for me as Marlborough’s wife does for him.”

“There’s only one Viceroy Sarah.”

“God be praised for that. It is a marvel to me that she keeps her place in the Queen’s favour. Look. The crowd has divided. How silent they are! Usually the mob shouts so that you cannot hear yourself speak. How strange! What’s happening?”

The two men were silent while Daniel Defoe was set in the pillory. His expression was serene and untroubled; he looked as though he had no fear of the crowd and was completely unrepentant.

This was most unusual. A band of men with cudgels had placed themselves about the pillory.

“Listen now,” said one. “This is our Daniel. Anyone who tries to harm Daniel will get a crack on the head. Is it understood?”

“Aye,” roared the crowd. “ ’Tis understood.”

Someone in the crowd lifted a pot of beer and cried: “Good health and long life to you, Daniel.”

The crowd took up the cry.

Harley and St. John exchanged looks and Harley began to laugh.

“By God,” he cried. “He’s got the crowd with him. He’s got them, St. John.”

The hot July sun poured down on the prisoner’s head; he was clearly in great discomfort; yet his eyes lit up with appreciation for he had realized that the crowd was friendly.