Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord Page 7

  Afterwards she wondered how she could have behaved as she did.

  Was it the desperation which was in the London air at that time? Was it the long faces of all she met which made her turn to the merry rake who was importuning her?

  She who loved to laugh felt in those weeks of inactivity that she must escape from a London grown so gloomy that she was reminded of the weeks of plague, when she had lived that wretched life in a deserted city.

  Charles Sackville was at her elbow. “Come, Nelly. Come and make merry,” he said. “I have a pleasant house in Epsom Spa. Come with me and enjoy life. What can you do here? Cry ‘Fresh herrings, ten a groat’? Come with me and I’ll give you not only a handsome lover but a hundred pounds a year.”

  In her mood of recklessness, Nell threw aside her principles. “I will come,” she said.

  So they made merry, she and Charles Sackville, in the house at Epsom.

  There they were in pleasant country, but not too quiet and not so far from London that their friends could not visit them.

  Charles Sedley joined them. He was witty and amusing, this Little Sid; and highly amused to see that Nell had succumbed at last. He insisted on staying with them at Epsom. He hoped, he said, to have a share in pretty, witty Nell. He would disclaim at length on the greater virtues of Little Sid as compared with those of Charles Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, and he was so amusing that neither Nell nor Buckhurst wished him to go.

  They were wildly merry; and all the good people at Epsom talked of these newcomers in their midst. Little groups hung about outside the house hoping to catch a glimpse of the Court wits and the famous actress; and it seemed that a spirit of devilment came to all three of them, so that they acted with more wildness than came naturally even to them; and the people of Epsom were enchanted and shocked by turns.

  Other members of the Court came down to see Lord Buckhurst and his newest mistress. Buckhurst was proud of his triumph. So many had laid siege to Nell without success. There was Sir Carr Scrope, squint-eyed and conceited, who made them all laugh by assuring Nell that he was irresistible to all women and, if she wished to be considered a woman of taste, she must immediately desert Buckhurst for him.

  Rochester came; he read his latest satires. He told Nell that he set his footmen to wait each night at the doors of those whom he suspected of conducting intrigues, that he might be the first to compile a poem on their activities and circulate it throughout the taverns and coffeehouses. She believed him; there was no exploit which would be too fantastic for my lord Rochester.

  Buckingham came; he was at this time full of plans. He swore that ere long they would see Clarendon out of office. He was working with all his mind and heart and he could tell them that his cousin, Barbara Castlemaine, was with him in this. Clarendon must go.

  And so passed the weeks at Epsom—six of them—mad, feckless weeks, which Nell was often to remember with shame.

  It was Sir George Etherege—Gentle George—who came riding to Epsom with news from London.

  Lacy was released; the King had pardoned him; he could not remain long in anger against his players; moreover he knew the hardship this brought to those who worked in his theater. The ban was lifted. The King’s Servants were playing once more.

  Nell looked at her player’s livery then—a cloak of bastard scarlet cloth with a black velvet collar. In the magnificence of the apartment which Buckhurst had given her, she put it on; and she felt that the girl she had now become was unworthy to wear that cloak.

  She had done that which she had told herself she would never do. She had loved Charles Hart in her way, and if her feeling for him had not proved a lasting affection, at least she had thought it was at the time.

  She accepted the morals of the age; but she had determined that her relationship with men must be based on love.

  And then, because of a mood of recklessness, because she had been weak and careless and afraid of poverty, she had become involved in a sordid relationship with a man whom she did not love.

  Buckhurst came to her and saw her in the cloak.

  “God’s Body!” he cried. “What have we here?”

  “My player’s livery,” she said.

  He laughed at it and, taking it from her, threw it about his own shoulders. He began to mince about the apartment, waiting for her applause and laughter.

  “You find me a bore?” he asked petulantly.

  “Yes, Charles,” she said.

  “Then the devil take you!”

  “He did that when I came to you.”

  “What means this?” he cried indignantly. “Are you not satisfied with what I give you?”

  “I am not satisfied with what there is between us.”

  “What! Nelly grown virtuous, sighing to be a maid once more?”

  “Nay. Sighing to be myself.”

  “Now the wench grows cryptic. Who is this woman who has been my mistress these last weeks, if not Nelly?”

  “’Twas Nelly, sure enough, and for that I pity Nelly.”

  “You feel I have neglected you of late?”

  “Nay, I feel you have not neglected me enough.”

  “Come, you want a present, eh?”

  “Nay. I am going back to the playhouse.”

  “What, for a miserable pittance?”

  “Not so miserable. With it I get back my self-respect.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, now we have become high and mighty. Nelly the whore would become Nelly the nun. ’Tis a sad complaint but no unusual one. There are many who would be virtuous after they have lost their virtue, forgetting that those who have it are forever sighing to lose it.”

  “I am leaving at once for London.”

  “Leave me, and you’ll never come back!”

  “I see that you and I are of an opinion. Good day to you, sir.”

  “You’re a fool, Nelly,” he said.

  “I am myself, and if that be a fool … then Nelly is a fool and must needs act like one.”

  He caught her wrist and cried: “Who is it? Rochester?”

  Her answer was to kick his shins.

  He cried out with pain and released her. She picked up her player’s cloak, wrapped it about her, and walked out of the house.

  Charles Hart was cool when she returned to the theater. He was not sure, he told her, whether she could have back any of her old parts.

  Nell replied that she must then perforce play others.

  The actresses were disdainful. They had been jealous of her quick rise to fame; and even more jealous of her liaison with Lord Buckhurst and the income which they had heard he had fixed upon her. They were delighted to see her back—humbled, as they thought.

  This was humiliation for Nell, but she refused to be subdued. She went on the stage and played the smaller parts which were allotted to her, and very soon the pit was calling for more of Mrs. Nelly.

  “It seems,” said Beck Marshall, after a particularly noisy demonstration, “that the people come here not to see the play but my lord Buckhurst’s whore.”

  Nell rose in her fury and, facing Beck Marshall, cried in ringing tones as though she were playing a dramatic part: “I was but one man’s whore, though I was brought up in a bawdy-house to fill strong waters to the guests; and you are a whore to three or four, though a Presbyter’s praying daughter.”

  This set the green room in fits of laughter, for it was true that Beck Marshall and her sister Ann did give themselves airs and were fond of reminding the rest that they did not come from the slums of London but from a respectable family.

  Beck had no word to say to that; she had forgotten that it was folly to pit her wits against those of Nell.

  The dainty little creature was more full of fire than any, and had the weapon of her wit with which to defend herself.

  They all began to realize then that they were glad to have Nell back. Even Charles Hart—who, though in the toils of my lady Castlemaine, had regretted seeing Nell go to Buckhurst—found himself relenting. Mor
eover he had the business of the playhouse to consider, and audiences were poor, as they always were in times of disaster. Anything that could be done to bring people into the theater must be done; and Nell was a draw.

  So, very soon after her brief retirement with Lord Buckhurst, she was back in all her old parts; and there were many who declared that, if there was one thing which could make them forget the unhappy state of the country’s affairs, it was pretty, witty Nell at the King’s playhouse.

  All through that autumn Nell played her parts.

  Meanwhile the country sought a scapegoat for the disasters, and Clarendon was forced to take this part. Buckingham and Lady Castlemaine were working together for his defeat, and although the King was reluctant to forsake an old friend he decided that, for Clarendon’s own safety, it would be wiser for him to leave the country.

  So that November Clarendon escaped to France, and Buckingham and his cousin Castlemaine rejoiced to see him go, and congratulated themselves on bringing about his eclipse.

  But it was not long before Buckingham and his cousin fell out. Lady Castlemaine with her mad rages, Buckingham with his mad schemes, could not remain in harmony for long. The Duke then began to make further wild plans, and this time they were directed against his fair cousin.

  He conferred with his two friends, Edward Howard and his brother, Robert Howard, who wrote plays for the theater.

  Buckingham said: “The Castlemaine’s power over the King is too great and should be broken. What we need to replace her is another woman, younger, more enticing.”

  “And how could this be?” said Robert. “You know His most gracious Majesty never discards; he merely adds to his hand.”

  “That is so; but let him add such a glorious creature, so beautiful, so enchanting, so amusing, that he has little time to spare for Castlemaine.”

  “He would fain be rid of her and her tantrums now, but still he keeps her.”

  “He was ever one to love a harem. Our gracious Sovereign says ‘Yes yes yes’ with such charm that he has never learned to say ‘No.’”

  “He is too good-natured.”

  “And his good-nature is our undoing. If Castlemaine remains mistress en titre she will ruin the country and the King.”

  “Not to mention her good cousin, my lord Buckingham!”

  “Aye, and all of us. Come, we are good friends—let us do something about it. Let us find the King a new mistress. I suggest one of the enchanting ladies of the theater. What of the incomparable Nelly?”

  “Ah, Nelly,” said Robert. “She’s an enchantress, but every time she opens her mouth Cole-yard comes out. The King needs a lady.”

  “There is Moll Davies at the Duke’s,” said Edward. Buckingham laughed, for he knew Moll to be a member of the Howard family—on the wrong side of the blanket. It was reasonable that the Howards should want to promote Moll, for she was a good choice, a docile girl. She would be sweet and gentle with the King and ready to take all the advice given her.

  But Buckingham was the most perverse man in England. It would be such an easy matter to get Moll Davies into the King’s bed. But he liked more complicated schemes; he wanted to do more than discountenance Castlemaine. Moreover how would Moll stand up to her ladyship? The poor girl would be defeated at every turn.

  No, he wanted to provide the King with a mistress who had some spirit; someone who could deal with Lady Castlemaine in a manner to make the King laugh, if he should witness conflict between them, and there was one person he had in mind for the task.

  Let the Howards do all in their power to promote the leading actress from the Duke’s Theater; he would go to the King’s own playhouse for his protégée.

  Mrs. Nelly! She was the girl for him. She had at times the language of the streets. What of it? That was piquant. It made a more amusing situation: a King and a girl from the gutter.

  He turned to the Howards. “My friends,” he said, “if there is one thing His Majesty would appreciate more than one pretty actress, it is two pretty actresses. You try him with Moll; I’ll try him with Nelly. ’Twill be a merry game to watch what happens, eh? Let the pretty creatures fight it out for themselves. Her ladyship will be most disturbed, I vow.”

  He could scarcely wait to bid them farewell. Nor did they wish to delay. They were off to the Duke’s to tell Moll to hold herself in readiness for what they proposed.

  Buckingham was wondering whether he should first call Charles’ attention to Nell or warn Nell of the good fortune which awaited her. Nell was unaccountable. She had left Buckhurst and gone back to the comparative poverty of the stage. Mayhap it would be better to speak to Charles first.

  He began to frame his sentences. “Has Your Majesty been to the playhouse of late? By God, what an incomparable creature is Mrs. Nelly!”

  Buckingham was in high spirits by the time he reached Whitehall.

  THREE

  King took several brisk turns round his privy gardens. It was early morning; it was his custom to rise early, however late he had retired, for his energy outstripped that of most of his courtiers, and when he was alone in the morning he walked at quite a different pace from that which he employed in his favorite pastime of sauntering, when he would fit his steps to those of the ladies who walked with him, pausing now and then to compliment them or throw some witty remark over his shoulder in answer to one of the wits who invariably accompanied him at sauntering time.

  But in the early morning he liked to be up with the sun, to stride unattended through his domain—quickly round the privy garden, a brisk inspection of his physic garden, perhaps a turn round the bowling green. He might even walk as far as the canal in the park to feed the ducks.

  During these walks he was a different man from the indolent, benevolent Charles whom his mistresses and courtiers knew. Those lines of melancholy would be more pronounced on his face as he took his morning perambulation. Sometimes he recalled the carousal of the previous day and regretted the promises he had made and which he knew he would not be able to keep; on other occasions he meditated on the virtuous and noble actions which he had left undone and all the subterfuges into which his easygoing nature and love of peace had led him.

  It was more than seven years since he had ridden triumphantly into Whitehall, and this city had been gay with its flower-strewn streets, the banners and tapestries, the fountains flowing with wine, and most of all its cheering hopeful citizens.

  And during that time how far had his people’s hopes been realized? They had suffered plague in such degree as had rarely been known in all previous visitations; their capital city had been in great part destroyed; they had suffered ignoble defeat by the Dutch and had experienced the humiliation of seeing Dutchmen in their own waters. They had deplored the Puritan spoilsports but what had they in place of them? A pleasure-loving King who more frequently dallied with his mistresses and the debauched Court wits who surrounded him, than attended to affairs of state! The fact that he was in full possession of a lively mind, that he could, if he had been less indolent and more in love with politics than with women, have grown into one of the most astute statesmen of the times, made his conduct even the more to be deplored.

  But even while he walked and considered himself and his position in his country, a sardonic smile curved his lips as he remembered that when he went into the streets the people still cheered him. He was their King and, because he was tall and commanding in appearance, because the women at the balconies who waved to him as he passed recognized that overwhelming charm in him, because the men, in their way, recognized it no less and were compensated for all the hardships they suffered when the King addressed them in the easy familiar way he had towards his subjects, rich or poor, they were satisfied and well content.

  Such was human nature, thought Charles wryly; and why should I wish to change it when it is so beneficial to myself?

  He had made peace with the French, Danes, and Dutch at Breda in the summer, and soon he hoped to conclude the triple alliance by which England,
Sweden, and Holland bound themselves to assist Spain against the French. The French had recently proved themselves no friends of his and although it had been deplorable that there should be open strife between them, Charles knew that the one man he must watch more carefully than any other was Louis XIV of France.

  There were times when he was excited by the game of politics, but he tired quickly. Then he would want the witty gentlemen of his Court about him—and most of all the beautiful women—for during his years of exile he had grown so cynical that he found it difficult to have much faith in anything, or any man. Pleasure never failed him. It always gave what he asked and expected. So many times he had seen plans come to nothing through no fault of the planners; he had seen men work diligently towards an ideal, only to be cheated of it by a trick of fate. He could not forget the years of bitterness and exile, the heartbreak of Worcester. Then he had given all his youthful idealism to regaining his kingdom; the result—dismal failure and humiliation. He had changed after Worcester. He had gone back to his life of wandering exile, the excitement of his days being not the plans he made for the regaining of his kingdom but those for the conquest of a new woman; and then suddenly Fortune had smiled on him. Through little effort of his own, without conflict and bloodshed, he was called back to his kingdom. He was welcomed with flowers and music and shouts of joy. England welcomed the debauchee, the careless cynic; almost ten years before, after disastrous Worcester, they had hounded the idealist from their shores. Such experiences made a deep impression on a pleasure-loving nature.

  So now, as he walked through his garden, his cynical smile expanded. He must keep disaster at bay and enjoy life.

  But even in this matter of enjoyment life had changed. He was heartily tired of Barbara Castlemaine. In the first years of their relationship he had found her tantrums amusing; he no longer did so. Why did he not banish her from the kingdom? Her amours were notorious. He could not bring himself to do it. She would storm and rage; and he had formed a habit, long ago, of avoiding Barbara’s storms and rages. It was simpler to let her alone, to avoid her, to let her continue with her love affairs. They said of him, in the language of the card tables: “His Majesty never discards; he adds to his hand.” It was true. Discarding was such an unpleasant affair; you could keep the uninteresting cards in your hands even though you rarely used them. It was much the more peaceable method.