Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord Read online

“You’d tire of Moll in a night.”

  Charles laughed aloud. What game was this? he wondered. Buckingham is determined to put Barbara out of countenance; I know they have quarreled. But why should the Howards and my noble Duke have turned procurers at precisely the same time?

  Moll Davies? Nell Gwyn? He would have one of them to entertain him that night.

  He was a little put out with Buckingham, who had for most of last year been under a cloud, and, not so long before that, banished from Court for returning there without the King’s permission. Buckingham was a brilliant man, but his brilliance was marred continually by his hare-brained schemes. Moreover the noble Duke gave himself airs and had an exaggerated opinion of his own importance and the King’s regard for him.

  Charles laid his hand on the Duke’s shoulder. “My dear George,” he said, “your solicitude for little Nelly touches me. It is clear to me that one who speaks so highly of a pretty actress desires her for himself. You go to my theater this day and court Nelly. I’ll go to the Duke’s and see if Moll Davies is the enchanting creature I have been led to believe.”

  Nell heard the news; it sped throughout the theater.

  The King had sent for Moll Davies. She had pleased him, and he had given her a ring estimated to be worth every bit of £700.

  He was often at the Duke’s Theater. He liked to see her dance. He led the applause, and everyone in London was talking about the King’s latest mistress, Moll Davies.

  Lady Castlemaine was sullen; she stayed away from the theaters. There were wild rumors about the number of lovers who visited her daily.

  Then one afternoon, instead of going to the Duke’s, the King came to his own theater.

  In the green room there was a great deal of excitement.

  “What means this?” cried Beck Marshall. “Can it be that His Majesty is tired of Moll Davies?”

  “Would that surprise you?” asked her sister Ann.

  “Indeed it would not surprise me,” put in Mary Knepp. “A more stupid simpering ninny I never set eyes on.”

  “How can the King … after my lady Castlemaine?” demanded Peg Hughes.

  “Mayhap,” said Nell, “because Moll Davies is unlike my lady Castlemaine. After the sun the rain is sweet.”

  “But he sends for her often, and he has given her a ring worth £700.”

  “And this night,” said Beck, “he is here. Why so? Can it be that he has a taste for actresses? Has Moll given him this taste?”

  “We waste time,” said Nell. “If he has come here for a purpose other than watching the show, that is a matter which we soon shall know.”

  “Nell’s turning to wisdom. Alas, Nell, this is a sign of old age. And, Nelly, you are growing old, you know. You’re turned eighteen, I’ll swear.”

  “Almost as old as you are, Beck,” said Nell. “Of a certainty I must soon begin to consider myself decrepit.”

  “I’m a good year younger than you,” cried Beck.

  “You have a remarkable gift,” retorted Nell. “You can make time turn back. This year you are a year younger than last. I have remarked it.”

  Ann interrupted: “Calm yourselves. You’ll not be ready in time; and will you keep the King waiting?”

  While Nell played her part she was conscious of him. All were conscious of him, of course, but Nell was playing her part for him alone.

  What did she want? Another affair such as that in which she had indulged with my lord Buckhurst, only on a more exalted plane? No. She did not want that. But Charles Stuart was no Charles Sackville. She was sure of that. The King was libertine-in-chief in a town of libertines, yet he was apart from all others. She sensed it. He had a quality which was possessed by none other. Was it kingship? How could Nelly, bred in Cole-yard, know what it was? She was aware of one thing only; she wanted that night, above all things, to hear those words: The King sends for Nelly.

  She was a sprite that night, richly comic, swaggering about the stage in her page’s garb. The pit was wildly applauding; the whole theater was with her; but she was playing only for the dark-eyed man in the box, who leaned forward to watch her.

  She made her bow at the end. There she stood, at the edge of the apron stage so close to the royal box. He was watching her—her only; she was aware of that. His dark eyes glistened; his full lips smiled.

  She was in the green room when the message came.

  Mohun brought it. “Nelly, you are to go to Whitehall at once. The King wishes you to entertain him in his palace.”

  So it was happening to her as it had happened to Elizabeth Weaver. She did not see the glances of the others; she was aware of a great exaltation.

  Mohun put a rich cloak about her shoulders.

  “May good fortune attend you, Nelly,” he said.

  In the great apartment were assembled the ladies and gentlemen of the King’s more intimate circle. Many of these were personally known to Nell. Rochester and his wife were there. She was glad, for, notwithstanding his often spiteful quips, she knew Rochester to be her friend. There was one thing he admired above all others—wit—and Nell, possessing this in full measure, had his regard. Buckingham and his Duchess were also present. The Duke’s eyes were shining with approval. He had worked to bring this about, and he was enjoying the rivalry with the Howards who were putting forward Moll Davies. At last he had succeeded in getting Nell to the Palace, and he had no doubt that pretty, witty Nelly would soon triumph over pretty, rather spiritless Moll Davies.

  Bulkeley, Etherege, Mulgrave, Savile and Scrope were also there. So were the Dukes of York and Monmouth, with several ladies.

  Nell went to the King and knelt before him.

  “Arise, sweet lady,” said the King. “We wish for no ceremony.”

  She rose, lifting her eyes to his, and for once Nell felt her bravado desert her. It was not that he was the King. She had suspected it was something else, and now she knew it was.

  More than anything she wanted to please him; and this desire was greater even than that which she had once felt when her ambition was to become an orange-girl, and later to act on the stage.

  Nell, shorn of her high spirits, was like a stranger to herself.

  But Buckingham was beside her.

  “I trust Your Majesty will prevail on Mrs. Nelly to give us a song and dance.”

  “If it should be her wish to do so,” said the King. “Mrs. Nelly, I would have you know that you come here as a guest, not as an entertainer.”

  “I am right grateful to Your Majesty,” said Nell. “And if it be your wish, I will sing and dance.”

  So she sang and she danced; and her spirits returned. This was the Nell they had met so many times before—Nell of the quick wits; the Nell who could answer the remarks which were flung at her from my lords Rochester and Buckingham, neither of whom, she was sure, had any wish other than to make her shine in the eyes of the King.

  There was supper at a small table during which the King kept her at his side. His glances showed his admiration, and he talked to her of the plays in which she had acted. She was astonished that he should know so much about them and be able to quote so much of their contents, and she noticed that it was the poetic parts which appealed to him.

  “You are a poet yourself, Sire?” she asked.

  He disclaimed it.

  But Rochester insisted on quoting the King:

  “I pass all my hours in a shady old grove,

  But I live not the day when I see not my love;

  I survey every walk now my Phyllis is gone,

  And sigh when I think we were there all alone;

  O then, ’tis O then that I think there’s no hell

  Like loving, like loving too well.”

  “Those are beautiful words,” said Nell.

  The King smiled wryly. “Flattery abounds at Court, Nelly,” he said. “I had hoped you would bring a breath of change.”

  “But ’tis so, Your Majesty,” said Nell.

  Rochester had leaned towards her. “His Most G
racious Majesty wrote the words when he was deep in love.”

  “With Phyllis?” said Nell. “His Majesty most clearly says so.”

  “Some beautiful lady cowers behind the name of Phyllis,” said Rochester. “I begin to tire of the custom. What say you, Sir? Why should we call our Besses, our Molls, and our little Nells by these fanciful names? Phyllis, Chloris, Daphne, Lucinda! As our friend Shakespeare says: ‘That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’”

  “Some ladies wish to love in secret,” said the King. “If you poets must write songs to your mistresses, then respect their desire for secrecy, I beg of you.”

  “His Royal Highness is the most discreet of men,” said Rochester with a bow. “He’s too good-natured. No matter whether it be politics, love, or religion.”

  Rochester began to quote:

  “Never was such a Faith’s Defender,

  He like a politic prince and pious,

  Gives liberty to conscience tender

  And does to no religion tie us.

  Jews, Turks, Christians, Papists, he’ll please us

  With Moses, Mahomet, or Jesus.”

  “You’re an irreverent devil, Rochester,” said Charles.

  “I see the royal lip curve in a smile, which I trust was inspired by my irreverence.”

  “Nevertheless there are times when you try me sorely. I see, my lady Rochester, that you are a little tired. I think you are asking for leave to retire.”

  “If it should please Your Most Gracious Majesty …” began Lady Rochester.

  “Anything that pleases you, my dear lady, pleases me. You are tired, you wish to retire. So I will command your husband to take you to your apartments.”

  This was the signal. They were all to go. The King wished to be alone with Nell.

  Nell watched them all make their exit. This was performed with the utmost ceremony, and as she watched them she felt her heart beat fast.

  When they had gone, the King turned to her, smiling.

  He took her hands and kissed them.

  “They amuse me … but such amusements are for those times when there are less exciting adventures afoot.”

  Nell said tremulously: “I trust I may please Your Majesty.”

  He replied: “My friends have put me in the mood to rhyme,” and he began to quote Flecknoe’s verse:

  “But who have her in their arms,

  Say she has a hundred charms,

  And as many more attractions

  In her words and in her actions.”

  He paused, smiling at her, before he went on: “It continues, I believe:

  “But for that, suffice to tell ye,

  ’Tis the pretty little Nelly.”

  “And ’tis written of you, I’ll swear, by one who knew you well.”

  “By one, Sire, who but saw me on the stage.”

  Charles drew her to him and kissed her lips. “’Twas enough to see you, to know it were true. Why, Nell, you are afraid of me. You say, This is the King. But I would not be a King tonight.”

  Nell said softly: “I am but a girl from the Cole-yard, one of Your Majesty’s most humble servants.”

  “A King should love all his subjects, Nell, however humble. I never thought to see you humble. I have noted your subduing of the pit.”

  “Sire, I do not now face the pit.”

  “Come with me and, for the sake of your beauty, this night let us forget that I am Charles Stuart, and you Nell of old Drury. Tonight I am a man; you a woman.”

  Then he put his arm about her and led her into a small adjoining chamber.

  And here it was that Nell Gwyn became the mistress of the King.

  Nell left the Palace in the early hours of the morning. She was bemused. Never had her emotions been so roused; never had she known such a lover.

  She was carried to her lodgings in a Sedan chair; it would not have been meet for her to have walked through the streets in the fine gown she had been wearing. She was no longer merely Mrs. Nelly, the play-actress. Her life had changed last night. People would look at her slyly; they would marvel at her; they would whisper about her; many would envy her; many would censure her.

  And I care not! she thought.

  When she reached her lodgings she kicked off her shoes and danced a jig. She was happier than she had ever been in her life. Not because the King had sent for her; not because she had joined the King’s seraglio; but because she was in love.

  There was never one like him. It was not that he was the King. Or was it? Nay! All kings were not kind, gentle, passionate, charming, all that one looked for in a lover. He was no longer Your Majesty to her; he was Charles. She had called him Charles last night.

  “Charles!” She said it now aloud. And: “Charles, Charles, Charles. Charles is my lover,” she sang. “The handsomest, kindest lover in the world. He happens to be the King of England, but what matters that? To me he is Charles … my Charles. He is the whole country’s Charles … but mine also … especially mine.”

  Then she laughed and hugged herself and recalled every detail of the night. She wished passionately then that she had never known any other Charles, never known Charles Hart; never known Charles Sackville.

  There have been too many Charleses in my life, she mused. I would there had been only one. Then she wept a little, because happy as she was there was so much to regret.

  The King forgot Nell for some time after that night. She was very pretty, but he had known many pretty women. Perhaps he had been disappointed; he had heard her wit commended by such as Buckingham; that did not count of course, as Buckingham had his own reasons for promoting Nell, which was the discomfiture of his cousin Barbara and doubtless the Howards. Yet Rochester seemed to have had some praise for her. Could it to be that Rochester had been or still was her lover?

  The King shrugged his shoulders. Nell was just a pretty actress. She had been a very willing partner in an enjoyable interlude, as had so many. He fancied she was very experienced; he had heard of an escapade with Buckhurst. Doubtless the pretty creature was not averse to changing from Duke to King.

  Moll Davies suited his present mood more frequently. Moll was so gentle; there had been no pretence of quick wits there; she was just a lovely young woman who could learn a part and speak it prettily; and she could dance as well as anyone on the stage.

  He found he was sending more frequently for Moll than for any.

  He had grown a little weary since the disasters. Was he ageing somewhat? Beneath the periwig he had plenty of silver showing among his dark hairs.

  Now that Clarendon was gone he was missing him. He would have to form a new Council. Buckingham was pressing for a place and, of course, would have it.

  State affairs claimed his attention; when he turned from them, little Moll Davies, who smiled so sweetly while speaking little, provided that which he needed. She was the completest contrast to Barbara. Then of course Will Chaffinch and his wife—who held the post of seamstress to the Queen—would often usher ladies up the back stairs to his apartments during the night, and lead them down to the river in the early hours of morning when their barges would be waiting for them. Chaffinch was a discreet and wily fellow, and his apartments were situated near those of the King. He had for long looked after his master’s more intimate and personal business.

  But now and then Charles remembered the sprightly little actress from his theater, and sent for her.

  He enjoyed her company. She was mightily pretty; she was now becoming amusing, and often he would catch glimpses of that wit which had amused Buckingham.

  Then he forgot her again; and it seemed that Moll Davies was going to replace Lady Castlemaine as the woman, among all his women, who could best please him.

  Nell was sad and her chief task during those days was to hide her sadness. She was nothing to him but just another harlot. She realized that now. She had been mistaken. The courtly manners, the charm, the grace—they were generously offered to any light-o’-love who could amu
se him for a night.

  She was nothing more than one of dozens. Tonight it might be her turn—perhaps not.

  For her there was no £700 ring. Moll Davies had won. The Howards were triumphant.

  As for Buckingham, he had forgotten his intention to promote Nell. His object had been achieved by the Howards and Moll Davies, for his cousin Barbara flew into a flaring rage every time the girl was mentioned. Barbara’s pride had been lowered; Barbara knew that she must take care when she thought she might insult the great Duke of Buckingham—her cousin and one-time lover though he was. What part had Nell in Buckingham’s schemes? None at all. He had forgotten he had ever exerted himself to bring her to the King’s notice. Thus it was with all his schemes. He dallied with them for a while and then forgot. So Moll Davies was provided with beautiful clothes and jewels by the Howards, who brought her before the King whenever he seemed inclined to forget her, while Nell’s benefactor ignored her.

  So Nell was desolate.

  In the green room the women laughed together, their eyes on Nell, Nell who had enjoyed the privilege of being sent for by the King.

  “Cole-yard,” whispered Beck Marshall, “could not go to Whitehall. ’Twas a mistake. His Majesty would be the first to realize it. Poor Nelly soon got her marching orders.”

  “She has been called back once or twice,” said her sister Ann.

  Peg Hughes, who was being courted by Prince Rupert, was inclined to be kind. “And doubtless will be called again. The King was never a man to fix his love on one. Nell will remain one of his merry band, I doubt not.”

  “She’ll be in the twice-yearly class,” said Beck.

  “Well, ’tis better to play twice yearly than not at all,” said Peg quietly.

  When Nell came among them, Beck said: “Have you heard the latest news, Nell? Moll Davies is to have a fine house and, some say, leave the stage.”

  Nell for once was silent. She felt that she could not speak to them about the King and Moll Davies.