Виктория Холт - The Merry Monarch’s Wife

“Your misfortune! The people love you. They will forgive you anything.”

He smiled at me. “There is a strong puritanical influence in the country. You do not see it at court, but it is there. The stern rules of Cromwell and his followers are not easily forgotten. The country must become prosperous. There must be an end to these wars. We have to be friendly with our neighbors. It is not enough to give people pageants and playhouses. There has to be security too.”

“I know that you have your anxieties and that when people hear scandals they believe that you are more interested in pleasure than in duty.”

He took my hand and pressed it. I thought he was trying to explain to me, to ask forgiveness for his weakness. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “Poor Mam,” he said. “She could not help what she was, any more than the rest of us can. And now she is gone…”

* * *

QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA was buried on the twelfth of September, nearly two weeks after her death; and she was laid to rest beside her ancestors in the Abbey of Saint Denis.

There were a great many rumors about her death, as there usually are about royal people who die before they are expected to.

Dr. Valot, I believe, had an uncomfortable time defending the “grains” he had subscribed. He declared he had given her these because she could not sleep, and so effective had they been that she had failed to wake up.

In England we mourned her. People ceased to talk of the part she had played in the Civil War and remembered the good things about her: her stoical attitude toward physical pain; her goodness; her care for her servants. I knew how warm-hearted she could be and I believed there had been much that was good in Henrietta Maria.

And then Frances Stuart, now Duchess of Richmond and Lennox, returned to court and I was deeply concerned as to what effect this would have on Charles.

She had changed. She was still beautiful, but she had lost just a little of that innocence…that childish outlook on life; but she was not subtle enough to hide the fact that the marriage was not a success.

Charles received her in a friendly but somewhat aloof manner. I was relieved by this, although it was no longer of vital importance to me; the Duchess of Richmond and Lennox could not be the threat that plain Miss Stuart had been.

Moreover, he was becoming more involved with the play actress Nell Gwynne who, I had heard, was expecting his child.

Poor Frances, she was not a happy woman.

I sent for her one day and dismissed everyone else, so that we could be alone together.

“Frances,” I said, “are you happy?”

She raised those beautiful eyes to my face and there was a mournful expression in them.

“It is not what I expected it would be, Your Majesty.”

“Oh,” I replied. “You thought there was something divine about marriage…did you, Frances? And now you find…”

“I was happier before,” she said.

I saw the regret in her eyes. It was natural that she should have been fascinated by the King, for, apart from that aura, he was attractive to men and women alike. His very ugliness — if it could be called that — was appealing; his tall lean figure moved with exceptional grace, but it was in his expression and smile that one recognized that easy tolerance, that sympathy, that acceptance of life and the determination to make it a pleasure for others as well as himself. He had a rare kindliness which drew people to him. So naturally Frances would have been attracted by him and would doubtless have preferred him to her drunken duke.

She had had the choice — as someone in my position would never have had. If Charles had been free to marry, most certainly she would have married him. But she had selected the way of morality and insisted on marriage, and she was regretting that.

Now she was back at court. I guessed it was the Duke who had insisted on their return, knowing that the King would forgive the woman on whom he had once so clearly set his heart.

He was right. Charles did not bear grudges for long. He had forgiven many who had trespassed against him; so he would forgive the Duke and Duchess of Richmond and Lennox.

He obviously did.

He was contented with the women he had. I began to believe that Nell Gwynne was responsible for this satisfaction. It was strange that an uneducated girl — though I believe she had a lively mind — could be so important to Charles. But then, when I considered Frances Stuart, was it so surprising?

He was still seeing Lady Castlemaine. She seemed to have some hold on him. I had heard her threaten to publish his letters to her. I think he could easily have prevented that, but perhaps he was fascinated by her insolence. She was notoriously unfaithful to him; her lovers were numerous and there were hints that many of them had to be paid for their services. Unpleasant scandals about her abounded. I could not understand why he continued to see her — but he did. This new serenity seemed certain to come from his association with Nell Gwynne.

I tried to discover something about her. I imagined for Charles she would provide a complete escape from formality, for Nell would be no respecter of persons. She was undemanding and asked for nothing. She was in love with the King in a way, as he was with her.

So perhaps it was due to Nell Gwynne that Charles did not dash to the side of Frances Stuart.

I said to her: “Frances, you wanted to be married, and you are. You are a duchess. You wanted a title, did you not?”

She agreed. “I thought it was right to be married. I did not want to be like so many at court.”

“Poor Frances. Life does not always turn out as we plan, you know.”

“No, Madam.”

“But you are the Duchess now…a married woman. Always remember, Frances, that is what you wanted. I am sorry you are disappointed. You used to be so happy in the old days.”

“But they could not go on, Madam.”

“No. You had to make a choice. Well, Frances, you made it, and now you are back at court. There is no turning back. So is it with us all.”

She was easy to read. I could see in her eyes that she was asking herself, what did I do? I chose the right thing and found unhappiness…when I might have been happy, doing what was wrong.

What a dilemma! It was one which I had not had to face.

* * *

I WAS WATCHFUL OF CHARLES, wondering what he was feeling about Frances. I guessed that if he wanted her to be his mistress there would be no obstacles this time.

The Duke would be complaisant enough, seeing advantages through such an arrangement. And Frances? What of her morals? I was not sure, but I believed she would succumb with ease. There was a great stir throughout the court when Frances contracted smallpox.

This was the most dreaded disease for, even if it did not kill, there must almost certainly be the inevitable disfigurement. Beauty could be destroyed in a few days by the hideous pits in the skin left after the sores had healed. And Frances Stuart, whose sole claim to fame had been her outstanding beauty, now stood at risk.

Charles was quite distressed when he heard. He could not bear to think of that incomparable beauty being destroyed. Frances was very ill. We heard that she had been badly smitten.

I thought the court would soon be in mourning for her. She had few enemies — only those who had been jealous of her good looks; she had never willingly done anything to harm anyone. I, who had suffered through her more than most, could only feel friendly toward her.

Then we heard that she was going to recover.

I was surprised when Charles went to see her. People did not visit smallpox sufferers. He was putting himself in danger.

That was characteristic of him. He must have truly loved her. I remembered his long pursuit of her, his contemplating divorcing me that he might marry her. Oh yes, indeed, he had cared deeply for her, for he would have hated to hurt me. Yet he had been ready to do it for her.

And now there she was, isolated because of the terrible affliction which had struck her. No one wanted to go near her; but he went.

When he returned I confronted him. I said: “Is it true that you have been to see Frances?”

He nodded, looking inifinitely sad.

“It was dangerous. What if you…?”

He shook his head. “She is past the illness.”

“But…”

He lifted a hand. “I went to see…an old friend.”

“And how was she?”

He turned away, unable to speak, and I knew then that the worst had happened.

“Poor Frances,” I murmured. “Poor, poor Frances.”

THERE WAS TROUBLE BREWING AND TO MY DISMAY I LEARNED that I was at the heart of it.

James, Duke of York, had made the mistake of not keeping his change of religion a secret. If Charles and I had had a child, the fact that James had turned to the Catholic faith, though it might have caused a little resentment in some quarters, would not have been of vital importance. But James was the heir to the throne and the English were against accepting a Catholic monarch.

So far there had been the hope that Charles would have a son who would be brought up in the Protestant faith, but he had not made his appearance and time was passing. Charles did have a son, however, but alas he was not legitimate. This was Monmouth. Monmouth was attractive and merry, as would be expected of a son of Charles. That he lacked Charles’s wit and shrewdness was of no great moment. Monmouth was young; he could learn wisdom.

Alas, he had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, as they said; he could not come to the throne — and so the country was left with James.

I am sure that at this time ambition was growing in Monmouth’s mind; as for James, dislike for the boy was only natural since it was possible that he could be a menace to him.

The King’s evident love for his illegitimate son was another factor to be considered. They were constantly in each other’s company and Monmouth took liberties which others would have hesitated to take; he behaved as the King’s legitimate son and was gathering about him a circle of friends who were looking to the future.

In the other camp was James, the heir presumptive to the throne, until I produced that longed-for child.

I knew that Charles was concerned about what was happening.

He said to me: “James is a fool. Why does he have to do all that worshipping in public?”

“He feels that he would be betraying God by being ashamed of the way he worships.”

“It’s the fact that he is betraying himself that I am afraid of,” said Charles. “God help James if he ever comes to the throne…and for that matter, God help England.”

It was Lady Castlemaine who told me the significance of this to myself. She had reasons for it. She always had her reasons.

I had listened to her before, and if her interests coincided with mine, I might do well to follow her advice.

She asked to see me. I hesitated, for I loathed the sight of the woman; and now that I knew of the depth to which she had sunk, I did not want her near me. But I decided I must at least hear what she had to say.

She came. She looked older and was showing signs of dissipation. She was overweight; her magnificent hair was piled up on her head and she wore a diamond ornament in it. Her gown revealed too much of her ample flesh; but she managed to look splendid still.

I bade her be seated, which she was already doing without waiting for my permission. She came straight to the point.

“Your Majesty, there is a conspiracy of which I am sure you are ignorant.”

I replied: “Pray inform me of it, Lady Castlemaine.”

“Once before there was a plot,” she went on. “Now there is another.” Her next words sent a shiver through my body. “They are trying to arrange a divorce so that the King may marry a woman who can give him children.”

“But now…,” I stammered.

“Your Majesty must forgive my frankness. It is not Frances Stuart now.” Her lips curled with a certain satisfaction. “She is a poor creature now with her pitted face. There is no one in mind. That is to come. Some foreign princess…French possibly. But this is a threat to you and we must prevent its happening.”

“How can you know this?”

“I mingle. I talk to these men. I have my faithful friends…my servants serve me well. I know.”

“Before there was…”