Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord Page 11

  Buckingham—by far the cleverer of the two—had decided that James should be his friend. He made advances to the Duke, suggesting that they sink their differences and work together. Buckingham wished to rid himself of his greatest rival in the Cabal, my lord Arlington, and had solicited James’ help to this end.

  James, with sturdy self-righteousness, had set himself apart from their schemes. He intimated that he considered it beneath him to enter into such Cabals; he was resolved to serve the King in his own way.

  More tact should have been used when dealing with the wild and reckless Buckingham.

  Buckingham now saw James as an enemy; and how could such an ambitious man tolerate an enemy who was also heir presumptive to the crown?

  Buckingham raged, and mad schemes filled his imaginative brain. The King must get legitimate children; the Duke of York must never be allowed to mount the throne.

  So now it was that Buckingham brought out his wild plans for a divorce between the King—that mighty stallion, who had proved many times that he was capable of getting children with a variety of women—and sterile Catherine, whose inability to perform her duties as Queen could plunge the country into a desperate situation.

  Charles had declined Buckingham’s efforts on his behalf, which had ranged from the divorcing of Catherine to the kidnapping of her and carrying her off to some plantation where she would never be heard of again.

  Moreover Charles had sought out James.

  “My lord Buckingham’s wild mind teems with wild plans,” he said. “And the very essence of these plans is that you shall never follow me. Do not laugh at them, James. Buckingham is a dangerous fellow.”

  Buckingham was looking to Monmouth. What wild seeds could he sow in that wild mind?

  So the shadows deepened about the throne, and the King had little time to think of the child which Nell would soon be bringing into the world.

  There was not a breath of air in the room. Hangings had been drawn across the windows to shut out the light; candles burned in the chamber. Nell lay on her bed and thought her last hour had come. So many women died in childbirth.

  Rose was with her, and she was glad of Rose’s company.

  “Nelly,” whispered Rose, “should you not be walking up and down the chamber? ’Twill make an easier birth, they say.”

  “No more, Rosy. No more,” moaned Nell. “I have walked enough, and these pains seem fit to kill me.”

  Her mother sat by the bed; Nell saw through half-closed eyes that she had brought her gin bottle with her.

  She was crying already. Nell heard her talking of her beautiful daughter who had captivated the King. Her mother’s voice, high-pitched and shrill, seemed to fill the bedchamber.

  “That little bastard my girl Nell is bearing the King’s son. Who’d have thought it … of my little Nell!”

  It is a long way, thought Nell, from a bawdy-house in Cole-yard to childbed of the King’s bastard.

  And where was the King this day? He was not in London. He was riding to Dover to greet visitors from overseas. “Matters of state,” he would murmur. “Matters of state. That is why I cannot be at hand at the birth of our child, sweet Nell.”

  He would say such things to have her believe that the child she was bearing was as important to him as those borne by his lady mistresses. Actress or Duchess … it was the same to him. That’s what he would imply. If he had been beside her and said it, she would have believed him.

  “I always said,” Mrs. Gwyn was croaking to Mary Knepp and Peg Hughes, who had come into the chamber to swell the crowds and see Mrs. Nelly brought to bed of the King’s bastard, “I always said that my Nell was too little a one to bear children.”

  Then Nell suddenly sat up in bed and cried aloud: “Have done with your caterwauling, Ma. I’m not a corpse yet. Nor do I intend to be. I’ll live, and so will the King’s bastard.”

  That was so typical of Nell that everyone fell to laughing; and Nell herself kept them in fits of laughter until the pain grew worse and she called to Rose and the midwife.

  Not long after that Nell lay back exhausted, with the King’s son in her arms.

  There was a fluffy dark down on his head.

  The women bending over him cried: “He’s a Stuart! Yes, you can see the royal stallion in Nelly’s brat.”

  And Nell, holding him close, believed she was discovering a new adventure in happiness. She had never felt so tired nor so contented with her lot.

  This tiny creature in her arms should never sprawl on the cobbles of Cole-yard; he should never hold horses for fine gentlemen; indeed he should be a fine gentleman himself—a duke no less!

  And why not? Were not Barbara’s brats dukes? Why should not Nell’s most beautiful babe become one also?

  “What’ll you call him, Nelly?” asked Rose.

  “I shall call him Charles,” said Nell, and she spoke very firmly. “Charles, of course, after his father.”

  And as she lay there, for the first time in her life Nell knew the real meaning of ambition. It was born in her, strong and fierce; and all her hopes and desires for greatness were for this child who lay in her arms.

  Charles, travelling to Dover, did not give Nell and their child a thought. He knew that he was approaching one of the most important moments of his reign.

  This meeting at Dover would not only bring him a sight of his beloved sister, but it would mean establishing that alliance which was to be forged between himself and France, himself and France rather than England and France, for the treaty which he would sign would be a secret treaty, the contents of which would be known only to himself and four of his most able statesmen—Arlington, Arundel, Clifford, and Bellings.

  Secrecy was necessary. If his people knew what he planned to sign, they would rise against him. They hated the French; and how was it possible to explain to them that their country tottered on the edge of bankruptcy? How was it possible to explain that the effects of plague, fire, and a Dutch war lingered on? England needed France’s money and, if France demanded concessions, these concessions must be made. Whether they would be kept or not was a matter with which Charles must concern himself when the time came for keeping them. Meantime it was a matter of signing the secret treaty or facing bankruptcy, poverty, famine, and that sorry state which invariably followed on the heels of these disasters and was the greatest of them all—revolution.

  Charles had seen one revolution in England; he had no intention of seeing another. Ten years ago he had come home; and he was determined—if it were in his power to prevent it—never to go wandering again.

  So he rode to Dover.

  There were so many compensations in life. Here he was to meet his sweet Minette, that favorite of all his brothers and sisters, the youngest of them all, whom he had always loved so dearly and who, in the letters she wrote so frequently to him, seemed like a constant companion. She was married—poor sweet Minette—to the most loathsome Monsieur of France, who treated her shamefully; and she was in love—she betrayed this in her letters, and he had his spies in the French Court who had confirmed this—with Louis XIV, the brilliant and handsome monarch of France. It was Minette’s tragedy that the restoration of her brother had come too late for her to marry the King of France, and that she had been forced to take Monsieur his brother.

  But it would be wonderful to see his sister, to talk with her, to listen to her news and tell his, and to assure each other how much those frequent letters meant in their lives; to tell each other that brother and sister never loved as they did.

  It was small wonder that Charles forgot that one of his minor mistresses was being delivered of a son. He fêted his sister and he signed the treaty which, if it had become universal knowledge, would have put his crown in as much danger as that which had surrounded his father more than twenty years before.

  But he would not let the facts depress him. His dearest sister was his guest for two short weeks—that odious husband of hers would allow her to stay no longer—and Louis was to pay
him two million livres within six months that he might, when the opportune moment arose, declare himself an adherent of the Catholic Faith. Charles shrugged his shoulders. There was no stipulation as to when Charles should make that declaration; had there been, he could never, however tempting the reward, have signed that treaty. He could declare himself a Catholic, at his own pleasure. That would be years ahead—mayhap never. And very badly England needed those French livres.

  He was to declare war on Holland when Louis asked him to, and for his services in this respect he would receive three million livres a year as long as the war continued.

  That gave him few qualms. The Dutch were England’s enemies and, with the aid of pamphleteers, it was not difficult to rouse the country’s hatred against an enemy who had recently sailed up one of England’s rivers and burned the nation’s ships under their very noses.

  Nay, thought Charles, they’ll go to war readily enough. ’Tis my turning papist they’d not stomach.

  But he remembered the words of his maternal grandfather, the great Henri Quatre—when he had entered Paris and ended the wars of religion.

  We are of a kind, thought Charles. A good bargain this. My country almost bankrupt, and myself to be paid two million livres to declare myself a Catholic at the right moment. Who knows, the right moment may never come, but my two million livres will, and prove most useful.

  So he signed the treaty and delighted his dear sister, for Louis, whom she loved, would be pleased with her when she came back to France to make a present to him of her brother’s signature on that treaty.

  Sweet Minette. Back to France she must go. Back to her odious husband.

  She held out her jewel case to him and said, “Choose what you will, dearest brother. Anything you may wish for I would have you take in memory of me.”

  Then he lifted his eyes and saw the charming girl who stood beside his sister, and who had brought the jewel case when Henriette had bidden her do so.

  “There is only one jewel I covet,” he said. “This fair one who outshines all in your box, sweet sister.”

  The girl dropped her eyes and blushed warmly.

  Minette said to her: “Louise, my dear, I pray you leave me with my brother.”

  The child curtsied and was gone, but not before she had thrown a quick look over her shoulder at the King of England.

  “Nay, Charles,” scolded Minette, “she is too young.”

  “It is a fault easily remedied,” said Charles. “Time passes, and those who are young are … not so young.”

  “I could not leave her behind.”

  Charles was somewhat regretful. He had rarely pursued women; it had never been necessary. Louise was a charming child, but he doubted not that here in Dover there were other charming children, his own subjects. The only time he had ever pursued a woman was during his infatuation for Frances Stuart.

  “I shall regret her going,” said Charles. “Had she stayed she could have provided some small consolation for your loss.”

  “Mayhap, dear brother, one day soon I shall come again to England, and I pray that next time I come it will not be necessary for me to depart so soon.”

  “My poor Minette, is life so difficult?”

  She turned to him, smiling. “Life is full of happiness for me now,” she said.

  Then she embraced him and wept a little.

  “When I return to France,” she said, “write to me regularly, Charles.”

  “Indeed I will. It is the only solace that is left to us.”

  “Tell me all that happens at your Court, and I will tell you all that happens at Versailles. Louis is jealous of my love for you.”

  “And I of yours for him.”

  “It is different, Charles.”

  “I am but the brother and he …”

  She smiled sadly. “Often there have been only your letters reminding me that I am entirely yours to make me feel my life is worthwhile.”

  He smiled at her tenderly; he understood so well. She loved him—but second to the King of France—and she had had to choose between them when she came on this mission as the agent of the King of France. Yet he loved her no less because of that.

  He saw his sister’s young maid of honor before they left for France.

  He came upon her suddenly in an antechamber as he was about to go to his sister’s apartments. He wondered whether she had arranged that it should be so.

  She curtsied prettily, and then as though wondering whether she complied with the English custom, fell on her knees.

  “Nay,” he said, “such obeisance is not necessary. Let not beauty kneel to any—not even royalty.”

  She rose and stood blushing before him.

  “You are a charming child,” he said. “I asked my sister to leave you behind that we might become good friends, but she will not do so.”

  “Sire,” said the girl. “My English is not of the best, you see.”

  “You should be taught it, my child; and the best way to learn a country’s language is to take up residence in that land. When I was your age and after, I spent many years in your country, and thus I spoke your country’s language.” He began to speak in French, and the young girl listened eagerly.

  “Would you like to come and stay awhile in England?”

  “But yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Stay at Court, shall we say, where I might show you how we live in England?”

  She laughed childishly. “It would give me the greatest pleasure.”

  “Alas, my sister says she owes an obligation to your parents and must take you back with her.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and drew her towards him. “And that,” he said, “makes me desolate.”

  “I thank Your Majesty.”

  “Thank me not. Thank the Fates which gave you this beautiful curling hair.” He fondled it tenderly. “This soft skin …” He touched her cheeks and throat.

  She waited breathlessly. Then he bent gracefully and kissed her on the lips. There was a movement in the room beyond them.

  He said: “Mayhap we shall meet again.”

  “I do not know, Your Majesty.”

  “Tell me your name before we part.”

  “It is Louise.”

  “Louise. It is a charming name. What other names have you?”

  “I am Louise Renée de Penancoët de Kéroualle.”

  “Then adieu, sweet Mademoiselle de Kéroualle; I shall pray that ere long we meet again.”

  FOUR

  Then Louise de Kéroualle came to England with Charles’ sister, Henriette, Duchess d’Orléans, she was already twenty years old. She looked much younger; this was due not only to her round babyish face but to her manners. These looks and manners were no indication of the real Louise, who was shrewd and practical in the extreme.

  As the daughter of Guillaume de Penancoët, the Sieur de Kéroualle, a gentleman of noble lineage, she could not hope for a brilliant marriage, since her family had fallen into poverty and could not provide her with an adequate dowry. Louise, ever conscious of her lineage, was never tired of reminding those who seemed likely to forget it that, through her mother, she was connected with the family of de Rieux. Her position was an unfortunate one—so proud and yet so poor. Louise was older than her sister Henriette by some years, so her problem was the more immediate. She had one brother, Sebastian, who was serving abroad with the King’s armies.

  Men could distinguish themselves in the service of their Kings, mused Louise; there was only one way open to women: marriage. Or so she had thought.

  She had remained at the convent, where she had received her education, so long that she had thought she would never leave it. She had had visions of herself growing old, past a marriageable age, perhaps taking the veil. For what was there left for noble women, who could not marry with their equals, but the veil?

  And then, suddenly had come the summons to return to her parents’ Breton home.

  She would never forget the day she arrived at the great mansion, where all
the family lived since none of them could afford to go to Court. She had wondered whether Sebastian had distinguished himself, whether the King had honored him, and their fortunes were changed, whether some miracle had happened and a man of wealth and family had asked for the elder daughter’s hand in marriage.

  It was none of these things, but it concerned herself.

  Her parents received her ceremoniously. Never did her father forget that he was Sieur de Kéroualle, and ceremony in his house was as closely observed as it was at Versailles.

  She curtsied before them both and received their embrace. Her father had waved his hand to dismiss the servants, and then he had turned his face to her and, smiling, said: “My daughter, a place has been found for you at Court.”

  “At Court!” she had cried, in her excitement forgetting that she should not show her surprise but accept all that was suggested, with the utmost decorum.

  “My dear child,” said her mother, “the Duchess d’Orléans is to take you into her suite.”

  “And …” Louise looked from one to the other, “this can be done?”

  “Indeed it can be done,” said her father. “Wherefore did you think we had sent for you if it could not be so?”

  “I … I merely thought it might prove too costly.”

  “But it is a great opportunity, and one which we could not miss. I shall sell some land and make it possible for you to go to Court.”

  “And we hope that you will be worthy of the sacrifice,” murmured her mother.

  “I will,” said Louise. “Indeed I will.”

  “In the service of Madame you will meet the very highest in the land. His Majesty himself is often in Madame’s house. They are great friends. I hope you will find favor in the King’s sight, daughter. Much good could come to our family if he found one of its members worthy of his regard.”

  “I see, Father.”

  They dismissed her then, for they said she was tired from her journey. She went to her room, and her mother followed her there. She made her lie down, and had food brought for her.