Other events, less sensational but of more importance, were happening at the same time. Clarendon, though much against his will, had finally been forced by the King to flee the country, and all his daughter’s enemies took gleeful advantage of his disgrace to slight her. But Anne bore their envious contempt with hauteur and indifference, and managed to hold her own court together by a superior cleverness and determination. She told herself that these fools and their jealous pettifogging could mean nothing to her, for one day a child of hers would sit upon England’s throne—with every passing year the Queen’s barrenness made it more sure that she was right.

When Clarendon had gone his government was replaced by the Cabal, so called because the first letters of their five names spelled the word. It was made up of Sir Thomas Clifford, the one honest gentleman among them and hence suspected of wearing a false front; Arlington, who was his friend but jealous of him; Buckingham, Ashley, and Lauderdale. They shared a common hatred of Clarendon and fear of his possible return to power, and an almost equal hatred of York. Otherwise they were divided among themselves. Each distrusted and was afraid of every other—and the King trusted none of them, but was satisfied that at last he had a government which was completely his tool. He was cleverer than any one of them, or all of them together.

And so they set out to govern the nation.

England signed an alliance with Holland, by means of which Charles succeeded in compromising the Dutch so that when he was ready to fight them again they would have no chance of getting France to help them out. He intended, in fact, to have France on his side in the next war and his correspondence with his sister was now directed toward that end. The Dutch pact, together with secret treaties signed recently with both France and Holland, had given England the balance of power in Europe—and though accomplished by the grossest political chicanery it was typical of the King’s methods. For his charm and easy-going nature were a convenient shield, hiding from all but the most astute the fact that he was a cynical, selfish, and ruthlessly practical opportunist.


It was the Earl of Rochester who said that the three businesses of the age were politics, women, and drinking—and the first two, at least, were never quite separate.

Charles intensely disliked having a woman meddle in state affairs, but he found it impossible to keep them out. Accordingly he accepted, as he usually did, what he could not change. For as soon as a woman had attracted his attention or was known to be his mistress she was besieged on all sides—as the Queen never was—by petitions for help, offers of money in return for bespeaking a favour, proposals to ally herself with one or another of the Court factions. Amber had been involved in a dozen different projects before she was at Whitehall a fortnight. And as the months went by she wound herself tighter and closer into the web.

Buckingham, from the night of her presentation at Court, had seemed friendly—at least he always sided with her against Lady Castlemaine. Amber still mistrusted and despised him, but she took care he should not know it, for though he would make only a dubious friend he was sure to be a dangerous enemy. And she thought it less to her disadvantage to have him as the former. But for several months they made no demands upon each other, and neither made any test of the other’s good faith.

Then, one morning in late March, he paid her an unexpected call. “Well, my lord?” said Amber, somewhat surprised. “What brings you abroad so early?” It was not quite nine, and his Grace was seldom to be seen out of bed before midday.

“Early? This isn’t early for me—it’s late. I’ve not yet been abed. Have you a glass of sack? I’m damned dry.”

Amber sent for some sharp white wine and anchovies and while they waited for it to be brought the Duke flung himself into a chair next the fireplace and began to talk.

“I’ve just come from Moor Fields. Gad, you never saw anything like it! The ’prentices have pulled down a couple of houses, Mother Cresswell is yowling like a woman run mad, and the whores are throwing chamber-pots at the ’prentices’ heads. They say they’re coming next to pull down the biggest whorehouse of ’em all.” He gave a wave of his hand. “Whitehall.”

Amber laughed and poured out a glass of wine for each of them. “And I doubt not they’ll uncover more strumpets here than they’d ever find in Moor Fields.”

Buckingham reached into a coat-pocket and took out a wrinkled sheet of paper. It was printed in careless uneven lines, the fresh black ink was smeared and several thumb-prints showed. He handed it to her.

“Have you seen this?”

Amber read it over hastily.

It bore the title, “Petition of the Poor Whores to my Lady Castlemaine”; and that was what it pretended to be, though judging by the spelling and satirical content it was almost certainly the work of some person living close to the Court. In coarse broad terms it called upon Barbara, as the chief whore in England, to come to the aid of the beleaguered profession she had helped to glorify. Amber realized at once that this must be another of the Duke’s whimsical inventions to plague his cousin, for she knew that they had been quarrelling again, and she was both pleased to have Barbara humiliated and relieved that she herself had escaped.

She smiled at him, handing it back. “Has she seen it yet?”

“If she hasn’t, she soon will. They’re all over London. Vendors are hawking ‘em outside the ’Change and on every street corner. I saw a tiler laugh to read it till he almost fell off the roof he was laying. Now, what kind of sorry devil would plague her Ladyship with such a libel as that?”

Amber gave him a wide-eyed look. “Lord, your Grace! Who, indeed? I can’t think—can you?” She sipped her wine, savouring the salt taste of the anchovies.

For a moment they looked at each other, and then both of them grinned. “Well,” said his Grace, “it’s no matter, now it’s been done. I suppose it’s come to your ears his Majesty is making her a present of Berkshire House?”

Amber’s black eyebrows twisted. “Yes, of course. She makes mighty sure it comes to everyone’s ears, I’ll warrant you. And what’s more, she says he’s going to create a duchy for her.”

“Your Ladyship seems annoyed.”

“Me—annoyed? Oh, no, my lord,” protested Amber with polite sarcasm. “Why should I be annoyed, pray?”

“No reason at all, madame. No reason at all.” He looked expansive and pleased with himself, enjoying the warmth from the fire, the good wine in his stomach, and some private knowledge of his own.

“I’d be much less annoyed if he was giving Berkshire House to me! And as for a duchy—there’s nothing on earth I want so much!”

“Don’t worry. One day you’ll have it—when he wants to get rid of you, as someday he will.”

She looked at him for a moment in silence. “Do you mean to say, my lord—” she began at last.

“I do, madame. She’s through here at Whitehall. She’s done for good and all. I wouldn’t give a fig for the interest she’s got left at Court.”

But Amber was still skeptical. For eight years Barbara had ruled the Palace, interfered in state business, bullied her friends and tormented her enemies. She seemed as permanent and inalterable as the very bricks of the buildings.

“Well,” said Amber. “I hope you’re right. But only last night I saw her in the Drawing-Room and she said that Berkshire House should be proof to all the world his Majesty still loves her.”

Buckingham gave a snort. “Still loves her! He doesn’t even lie with her any more. But of course she hopes we’ll all believe her tale. For if the world thinks the King still loves her—why, that’s as good as if he did, isn’t it? But I know better. I know a thing or two the rest of you don’t.”

Amber did not doubt that, for his Grace had incalculable means of keeping himself well-posted. Little passed at Whitehall, of small or great importance, which escaped his drag-net of spies and informers.

“Whatever your Grace knows,” said Amber, “I hope is true.”

“True? Of course it’s true! Let me tell you something, madame—I’ m the means by which her Ladyship’s complete and final downfall was accomplished.” He seemed smug now and satisfied with himself, as though he had performed an act of unselfish service to the nation.

Amber looked at him narrowly. “I don’t understand you, sir.”

“Then I’ll speak more plainly. I knew Old Rowley’s wish to be rid of her—but I knew also the kind of bargain she’d try to drive. It was very simple: I merely told him that the love-letters she’s been threatening to publish were burnt many years ago.”

“And he believed you?” Amber was now inclined to think that he had ruined Barbara, duped the King, and was maneuvering to take some advantage of her.

“He not only believed me—it’s the truth. I saw ’em burnt myself. In fact, I advised her to do it!” Suddenly he slapped his knee and laughed, but Amber continued to watch him carefully, not at all convinced. “She’s in a blazing fury. She says she’ll have my head for that one day. Well, she can have it if she can get it—but Old Rowley’s mighty well pleased with me just now—and I’ve got a mind to die with my head on. Let her scheme and plan how she may—her fangs have been drawn and she’s helpless. You’re looking somewhat cynical, madame. It can’t be you think I’m lying?”

“I can believe you told him about the letters—but I can’t believe he won’t take her back again; he always has before. Why should he give her that house and promise her a duchy if he had done with her? It runs through the galleries he even had to borrow money to buy Berkshire.”

“I’ll tell you why, madame. He did it because he’s softhearted. When he’s had all he wants of a woman he can never bring himself to throw her aside. Oh, no. He must always deal fairly with each of ‘em, recognize their brats whether they’re his or not, pay ’em off with great sums of money to keep ’em from being slighted by the malicious world. Well, madame—I should think this would be good news to you. It was never my opinion you and Barbara Palmer had overmuch fondness for each-other.”

“I hate her! But after all the years she’s been in power—I can scarce believe it—”

“She can scarce believe it herself. But she’ll get accustomed to it before long. I was tired of her vapourings—and so I took steps to be rid of her. She’ll hang on here at Whitehall, perhaps for years, but she’ll never count for anything again. For once Old Rowley is thoroughly tired of anyone, whether man or woman, he has no further use for ’em. It’s our best protection against the Chancellor. Now, madame, it’s occurred to me that this leaves a place wide open for some clever woman to step into—”

Amber returned his steady stare. No ally of Buckingham’s was much to be envied. The Duke engaged in politics for nothing but his own amusement. He had no principles and no serious purpose but followed only his temporary whims, rejecting friendship, honour, and morality. He was bound to no one and to nothing. But in spite of all that he had a great name, a fortune still one of the largest in England, and high popularity with the rich merchants, the Commons, and the people of London. Even more persuasive, he had a streak of vindictive malice which, though not always persistent, could do vast damage at one impulsive stroke. Amber had long ago made up her mind about him.

“And suppose someone does take her Ladyship’s place?” she inquired softly.

“Someone will, I’ll pass my word for that. Old Rowley’s been governed by a woman since he first took suck from his wet-nurse. And this time, madame, the woman might be you. There’s no one in England just now with so happy an opportunity. Those gentlemen who are keeping company with the Duchess of Richmond these days are but washing the blackamoor. She’ll never please his Majesty long—that empty-headed giggling baggage. I’ll venture my neck on it. Now, I’m an old dog at this, madame, and understand these matters very well—and I’ve come to offer my services in your behalf.”

“Your Grace does me too much honour. I’m sure it’s more than I deserve.”

The Duke was suddenly brisk again. “We’ll dispense with the bowing and nodding. As you know, madame, if I like I can help you—in your turn, you may be of some use to me. My cousin made the mistake of thinking that all her business was done for her in bed and that it made no difference how she carried herself otherwise. That was a serious error, as no doubt she understands by now—if she has wit enough to see it. But that’s all water under the bridge and need not concern us. I admit to you freely, madame, I’ve made a lifelong study of his Majesty’s character and flatter myself I know it as well as any man who wears a head. If you will be guided by me I think that we might go near to molding England in our own design.”