Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord Read online

  The two sisters clung together in silence, rejoicing that whatever the future held for them, the other would be there to share it.

  Nell was there in the streets when the King came home. Never in all her life had she witnessed such pageantry. She had climbed onto a roof—urging Rose and her cousin Will to climb with her—the better to see all that was to be seen.

  Nell’s eyes shone with excitement as others, following her example, climbed the roof to stand beside the three children; Nell jostled to keep her place and let out such streams of invective that those about her were first incensed, then amused. She snapped her fingers in their faces; she was used to such treatment; she knew the power of her tongue which always made people smile in the end.

  From where she stood she could see St. Paul’s rising high on Ludgate Hill and dominating the dirty city, the hovels of which clustered about the fine buildings like beggars about the skirts of fine ladies. Even the wide roads were so much in need of repair that they were full of potholes; the small streets and alleys were covered in mud and filth. The smells from the breweries, soap-makers and tanneries filled the air, but Nell did not notice this; these were the familiar smells. On the river were boats of all descriptions—barges, wherries, skiffs, anything which could float. Music came from them, and shouting and laughter filled the air. Everyone seemed to want to talk of his pleasure in this day so loudly as to shout his neighbor down.

  The bells were ringing from every church in the city; the roughness of the roads was hidden by flowers which had been strewn along the way the King would come; tapestry was hung across the streets and from the windows. The fountains were running with wine. All the people seemed to be congratulating each other that they had lived to see this day.

  Over London Bridge and through the streets the procession came on its way to the Palace of Whitehall. There were all the fine ladies and gentlemen, all the noblemen and women who surrounded the King.

  Nell leaped with excitement and was warned by Rose and Will that if she did not take greater care she would fall from the roof.

  She paid no heed, for at that moment the cheering and shouting of the people had become so loud that she could no longer hear the pealing of the bells. Then she saw the King ride by, tall, and very dark—a veritable Black Boy—bareheaded with his black curls falling over his shoulders, his feathered hat in his hand as he bowed and smiled to the crowds who were shouting themselves hoarse in their welcome.

  The dark eyes seemed to miss no one. All about her Nell heard the whisper: “He smiled at me. I swear it. He looked straight at me … and smiled. Oh, what a day is this! The King has come home, and England will be merry again.”

  Behind the King came all those who had followed him from Rochester, determined to accompany him into his capital, determined to drink his health in the wine flowing from London fountains, determined to show that not only in London did people welcome the King to his own.

  Nell was quiet as she watched the rest of the procession. She was wishing she was one of the fine ladies she saw riding there. Those little feet of hers would look well in silver slippers. She longed for a velvet gown to replace her coarse petticoat; she would have liked to comb the tangles out of her hair and wear it in sleek curls as those ladies did.

  Rose was wistful too. Rose had changed lately—grown secretive. Rose was now working in her mother’s house, and Rose was reconciled. She was pretty and many men who came to the house asked for Mrs. Rose. Nell, hurrying from one table to another serving strong waters, eluded those hands stretched out to catch her; she could not curb her tongue and she knew how to use it to advantage—not to charm those men with the ugly lustful faces who gathered in her mother’s cellar, but to anger them, so that they felt more inclined to cuff that slut Nelly than to caress her.

  It was seven of the clock by the time the procession had passed and they could fight their way back to Cole-yard, where Madam Gwyn was waiting for them. There was free wine in the fountains that day, but all the same she anticipated good business in her cellar.

  It was early morning and there were still sounds of revelry in the streets.

  Rose was not in the house in Cole-yard. She had gone off with a lover. “A fine and gallant gentleman,” mused Madam Gwyn. “Ah, what I do for my girls!”

  It was not easy to sleep. Nell lay on her pallet and looked at that mountain of flesh which was her mother. She had never loved her. How was it possible to love one who had cuffed and abused for as long as one could remember? What did Ma want now but a life of ease for herself—ease and gin, of course. She was meant to keep a bawdy-house. Sugary words came easily to her tongue when she talked to the gentlemen, just as abuse came when she scolded her daughters. All her hopes were in Rose—pretty Rose who already had found a lover from the casual callers at the house.

  And, mused Nell, what else was there for a girl to do? Sell herrings, apples, turnips?

  Rose had a fine gown given her by her lover, and she looked very pretty when she sauntered out into Drury Lane. The other girls were envious of Rose. Yet Nell did not want that life. Nell was going to remain a child—too young for anything but to serve strong drinks—for as long as she could.

  “Ma,” she said softly, “are you asleep?”

  “There’s too much noise outside for sleep.”

  “It’s good noise, Ma. It means the King’s home and things will change.”

  “Things will change,” wheezed Madam Gwyn. Then she said: “Nell … there’s nothing left in this bottle. Get me another.”

  Nell leaped up and obeyed.

  “You’ll kill yourself, Ma,” she said.

  Madam Gwyn spat, and snatched the bottle roughly. Nell watched her, wondering whether when she was young she had ever looked as pretty as Rose.

  “I deserve my fancies,” said Madam Gwyn. “’Twas a goodly night. If all nights were as good as this one I’d be rich.”

  “Mayhap they will be, Ma, now the King’s come home.”

  “Mayhap. Mayhap I’ll have a true brothel. There’s more to be made in a brothel than a bawdy-house. Mayhap ere long I’ll have a place in Moor-fields or Whetstone Park. Why should such as Madam Cresswell, Mother Temple, and Lady Bennet do so well, while I have my cold cellar and just a few sluts from the Cole-yard?”

  “Well, Ma, you’ve done well. You’ve got the whole of this place now, and the rooms above this bring much profit to you.”

  “You’re growing up, Nell.”

  “I’m not very old yet, Ma.”

  “I once thought you’d be every bit as good as your sister. I’m not so sure now. Don’t none of the gentlemen ever have a word with you?”

  “They don’t like me, Ma.” Madam Gwyn sighed, and Nell went on quickly: “You’ve got to have someone to serve the brandy, Ma. You couldn’t get round quick enough with it yourself. And would you trust any but me with that fine Nantes brandy?”

  Madam Gwyn was silent, and after a while she began to cry. This was the maudlin mood, and for once Nell was glad of it. “I’d have liked something better for my girls,” mused Madam Gwyn. “Why, when you were born …”

  “Tell me about our father,” said Nell soothingly.

  And her mother told of the captain who had lost all his money fighting the King’s battles. Nell smiled wryly. All poor men in these days had lost their money fighting the King’s battles; and she did not believe this story of the handsome captain, for what handsome captain would have married her mother?

  “And he would give me this and that,” mourned Madam Gwyn. “He spent all he had as soon as he got it. That was why he died—blessing me and his two girls—in a debtors’ prison in Oxford town.”

  Madam Gwyn was crying noisily; outside in the streets the merrymaking continued, and Nell lay wide-eyed yet dreaming—dreaming that some miraculous fate took her from her mother’s bawdy-house in Cole-yard and she became a lady in a gown of scarlet velvet and silver lace.

  Nell stood watching the builders on that plot of land between Drury
Lane and Bridge Street.

  Will was with her. Will knew most things that went on in the city.

  “You know what they’re building here, Nelly?” he said. “A theater.”

  “A theater!” Nell’s eyes sparkled. She had been to the play once in Gibbon’s Tennis Court in Vere Street. It had been an experience she had never forgotten, and swore she never would. When she had left the place the enchantment had lingered and, having memorized most of the attractive roles, she had continued to play them out ever since, partly for the benefit of any who would listen and watch, chiefly for her own satisfaction.

  What more exciting than to prance on a stage, to have all the people in the theater watching you, to hear them laugh at your wit, always knowing that their amusement might as easily turn to scorn. Yes, those laughs, those tender languishing glances from young gallants, might easily be replaced by bad eggs or offal, filth picked up in the streets. Nell’s eyes sparkled still more as she thought of what she’d have to say to any who dared insult her.

  And now they were building a new theater. Because, said Will, the King cared greatly for the theater and actors; he liked men who could make him laugh, and actors who could divert him with their play.

  Gibbon’s Tennis Court was no longer considered good enough for a King’s Theater, and this was to be built. So Will had heard two gentlemen say, when he had lighted them across the road. It was going to cost the vast and almost unbelievable sum of one thousand five hundred pounds. “Mr. Killigrew is making all arrangements,” added Will.

  “Mr. Killigrew!” said Nell, and she laughed loudly. Rose had a new lover. He was a gentleman of high degree and his name was Killigrew—Henry Killigrew. He was employed by the Duke of York, the King’s brother; but, more important still, he was the son of the great Thomas Killigrew, friend of the King, Groom of the King’s Bedchamber and Master of the King’s Theater. It was this great Thomas Killigrew who was responsible for the building of the new theater, and the fact that Rose’s lover was his son gave Rose added luster in Nell’s eyes.

  She could scarcely wait to reach home and tell Rose what she had discovered, so bade a hasty farewell to Will, who looked hurt. Poor Will, he should be accustomed to her by now. Will was fond of her; he was afraid that one day her mother would succeed in making her work in the house as Rose worked, even though Nell was determined not to. Nell had her eyes on another life. It was not like her to be secretive, but this she kept to herself. She had started to dream ever since she had watched the King ride into his capital and had seen the fine ladies in their silks and velvets. She had wanted to be as they were and, perhaps because she knew that the nearest she could get to being a lady of quality was to act the part—and this she believed she could do so that none would know her home was a bawdy-house in Cole-yard—she had made up her mind to be an actress.

  When she arrived at the house she realized with dismay that soon the gentlemen would be crowding into the cellar, and she would be running from table to table serving brandy, wine or ale, avoiding the hands that now and then sought to catch her, making use of her nimble feet either to kick or to run, and scowling—squinting too—to distort her pretty face.

  She went to the room where the girls sat when they were not in the cellar. Rose was there alone.

  Nell cried: “Rose, they’re building a theater by Drury Lane and Bridge Street.”

  “I know,” said Rose, smiling secretly. He told her, thought Nell.

  “It’s Henry’s father, who is the King’s Theater Master,” said Nell. “He is having this done.”

  “’Tis so,” said Rose.

  “Does he talk to you of the theater, Rose?”

  Rose shook her head. “We don’t have time for talking much,” she said demurely.

  Nell began to jig round the room. Rose looked at her intently. “Nelly,” she said, “you’re growing up.” Nell stood still, some of the color drained from her face. “And … in your way …” said Rose, “you’re a pretty wench.”

  The horror had frozen on Nell’s face. “Mayhap,” went on Rose, “you would miss my luck. ’Tis not every girl from Cole-yard who could find herself a gentleman.”

  “That’s so,” agreed Nell.

  “You love the theater, do you not? You would like to go often. Why, I’ll never forget the way you were when you came home after seeing the players—nearly driving us all crazy and making us die of laughing. Nell, how would you like to be in the theater while the players act?”

  “Rose … what do you mean? Rosy, Rosy, tell me…. Tell me quickly or I’ll die of despair.”

  “That’s one thing you’d never die of. Listen to me: I know this, for Henry told me. The King’s company have granted to Mrs. Mary Meggs the right to sell oranges, lemons, fruit, sweetmeats, and all manner of fruiterers’ and confectioners’ wares. That will be when the new theater opens. Oh, it’s going to be such a place, Nelly!”

  “Tell me … tell me about Mary Meggs.”

  “Well, she will need girls to help her sell her wares, that is all, Nelly.”

  “And you mean … that I …”

  Rose nodded. “I told Harry about you. He laughed fit to die when I told him how you squinted for fear the gentlemen should be after you. He said he had a mind to try you himself. But he did not mean that,” added Rose complacently. “I told him how you wanted to be in the playhouse all the time, and he said, ‘Why, she’d make one of Orange Moll’s girls.’ Then he told me about Mary Meggs and how she wanted three or four girls to stand there in the pit and chivy the gentlemen into buying China oranges.”

  Nell clasped her hands together and smiled ecstatically at her sister. “And I am to do this?”

  “I know not. You go too fast. Did you not always? If Mary Meggs makes up her mind that you will suit her, and if she has not already found her girls … well then, doubtless you will serve.”

  “Take me to her. Take me to her now. I must see Mary Meggs. I must! I must!”

  “There is one thing you must not do—and that is squint. Mary Meggs wants pretty girls in the pit. No gentleman would pay sixpence for a China orange to a girl who squints.”

  “I shall smile … and smile … and smile….”

  “Nell, Nell, don’t smile so downstairs, or you’ll look too pretty.”

  “Nay,” said Nell. “I shall look like this as I serve the waters.” She made a hideous grimace, squinting diabolically, puffing down her lids with her fingers, and drawing her mouth into a snarl.

  Rose doubled up with laughter. Rose laughed easily nowadays. That was because she was thinking of her lover, Harry Killigrew. Life was wonderful, Nell decided; one never knew what was coming. Poor Rose had been frightened of the cellar and the gentlemen, and now that work had brought her Harry Killigrew; and his connection with the King’s players was to give Nell an introduction to Orange Moll Meggs and bring her near to her heart’s desire.

  Rose was sober suddenly. “There is no need for you to hurry to Mary Meggs. Harry will say: ‘Mrs. Nelly is to sell oranges in the King’s Theater because Mrs. Nelly is the sister of my Rose.’”

  Nell flung herself into her sister’s arms, and they laughed together as they had often laughed in the past, laughed for happiness and relief, which, Nell had said, were so much more worth laughing for than a witty word.

  Henry Killigrew did not come to the cellar that night. Rose was always anxious when he did not come. Nell was anxious now. What if he never came again? What if he forgot all about Rose and her sister Nell? What if he did not realize how vitally important it was that Nell Gwyn should become one of Mary Meggs’ orange-girls?

  Nell moved among the gentlemen with an abstracted look, but she was ever ready to elude their straying hands. She was sorry for poor Rose; for if her lover did not come, Rose would be forced to take another, provided he would pay the price her mother demanded.

  Rose was no longer indifferent, because Rose was in love. It was as important now for Rose to elude those straying hands as it was for Nell to
do so.

  Nell felt sudden anger against a world which had nothing better than this to offer a girl, when others—such as those ladies in velvet and cloth of gold and silver—whom she had seen about the King on his triumphal entry into his Capital, had so much. But almost immediately she was resigned. Rose had her lover, and those ladies riding with the King had not seemed more radiant than Rose when she had been going to meet Henry Killigrew; and when she, Nell, was one of Mary Meggs’ orange-girls she would know greater happiness than any of those women could possibly know.

  Now her eyes went to Rose. A fat man with grease on his clothes—doubtless a flesh-merchant from East Cheap—was beckoning to her, and Rose must perforce go and sit at his table.

  Nell watched. She saw the big hands touching Rose, saw Rose recoiling with horror, her eyes piteously fixed on the door, waiting for the entry of her lover.

  Nell heard her say: “No … No. It is not possible. I have a gentleman waiting for me.”

  The flesh-merchant from East Cheap stood up and kicked the stool on which he had been sitting across the cellar. Others watched, eyes alert with interest. This was what they liked—a brawl in a bawdy-house when they could throw bottles at one another, wreck the place, and enjoy good sport.

  Madam Gwyn had come from her corner like an angry spider. She raised her slurring gin-cracked voice. “What ails you, my fine gentleman? What do you find in my house not to your liking?”

  “This slut!” shouted the flesh-merchant.

  “Why, that’s Mrs. Rose … the prettiest of my girls … Now, Mrs. Rose, what has gone wrong here? You drop a curtsy to the fine gentleman and tell him you await his pleasure.”

  The flesh-merchant watched Rose and his little eyes were cruel.

  “He’s planning to hurt her,” shouted Nell in panic.

  Rose cried: “I cannot. I am ill. Let me go. There is a gentleman waiting for me.”

  Rose’s mother took her by the arm and pushed her towards the flesh-merchant, who gripped her and held her to him for a few seconds; then he was roaring with rage, shouting at the top of his voice. “I see it now. She has my purse, the slut!”