by Priya Parmar
“Do you wish to speak to me?” she asked with surprising frankness. Her voice was low and rich and her accent gently rolling.
I dropped like a stone into my best curtsey and stayed bowed low. “Yes, madam.” What now? “I often see you alone and … and…” I stopped.
“And?” she kindly encouraged, raising me up. We were of a similar height, both tiny in this world of giants.
“And I would be your friend, if I could. If you wished it.” I heard the absurdity of my request. I am Ellen Gwyn, of Coal Yard Alley, an actress and orange girl currently trying to seduce her husband. She was the Portuguese Infanta and is now the Queen of England—a princess twice over. Why would she choose me as a companion? By all the rules of royal etiquette, she should not even speak to me. Heigh-ho, in it now. I am becoming accustomed to looking the fool in these circles. And besides, the truth is I do want to be her friend. I respect this courageous little woman who remains in a foreign, unfriendly, scrutinising court because she passionately loves her husband.
“Ah, but wouldn’t you rather be my husband’s friend?” she asked quietly.
I snapped out of my reverie, sheepish and apologetic. She lifted my chin and looked me in the eyes. She has an unexpected directness, a kind of gravity about her. I found her disarming. I could not lie to her.
“Yes,” I confessed. “That is just what I was brought here to do.” I had no excuse. What excuse could there be?
“By Buckingham?” I nodded. She sighed, unsurprised. After six years in England she was accustomed to such bedroom intrigue—and always in her husband’s bedroom. “Lady Castlemaine is no longer helpful to him, I gather, and so he is in the market for a more malleable royal mistress?” Her clear assessment of the situation startled me.
“Do you not mind?” I asked boldly, too boldly. She was every inch a queen and would not allow such intimacies.
Skirting the question, she responded lightly, “And how are you finding the lion’s den?”
“More like hyenas,” I replied sharply, thinking of la belle Stuart’s grating giggle.
She laughed a ripe, throaty laugh, understanding my reference. “Mrs. Gwyn, is it?”
“Ellen,” I offered instinctively—why do I do that? “Just Ellen.”
“Ellen,” she mused. “Good night, Mrs. Ellen.”
The conversation was over. “God give you good night, madam,” I wished her with feeling. She turned to go indoors. I swept her a low curtsey. At the blossoming hedgerow she turned back and said quietly, “I accept. We shall be friends. God keep you, Mrs. Ellen.” I did not look up but remained there until she was out of sight. I like this woman.
August 6—Back to the Coach and Horses
The talk ripples across the court: the king left last night for a quick trip to London—to survey the new building works—and coincidentally Moll Davis left for London soon after.
Later, at the gaming tables
“To visit her mother,” the Venetian ambassador said with a wink.
“Suffolk Street is the second new town house he has purchased for that woman,” Lady Fitzharding whispered, considering her hand. “The first was not to her liking; she preferred a more fashionable street. Of course she wants more. She is after all she can get.”
“I heard she has ordered crimson silk wall coverings and is planning an entirely crimson drawing room,” Colonel Wyndham said in a conspiratorial whisper. I saw the eyebrows of his wife, Lady Christabelle, arch in surprise.
“Vulgar,” she quipped.
“Common,” sniffed the wife of the Venetian ambassador, laying down her cards.
“Worse than common, an actress. What did you expect?” Lady Fitzhar-ding sighed. “Actors have a certain charm, I’ve found, but actresses…” She shuddered.
“They are so right,” I said loudly to Buckingham, well within their hearing. “Actresses can be so greedy, but noble ladies like your cousin Barbara Castlemaine are always graciously contented with their lot.”
Later, in the gardens
“The rebuilding of his capital city has become my husband’s passion,” the queen said affectionately, ostensibly oblivious to his other all-too-notable passion. Her ladies twittered in agreement.
August 7—Tunbridge Wells
I spent a pleasant afternoon with the queen and her companions on the archery course. She is quite accomplished; I was surprised by her athleticism, although I do not know why I should be. Her humour is understated and quite dry. She has been an avid student of this court and understands its intricacies well. I watch her watch her own ladies-in-waiting. She is bright and gay, and leads them in the merriment, but is ever on her guard. With good reason. This flirtatious flock would rejoice in her removal. I would not. She is a good, kind queen, a better woman than I by far. What am I doing here?
Later, three p.m.—The Unicorn Inn, Tunbridge Wells
Just back to change my gown. Changing my ensemble must take up half my day. It doesn’t do to wear the same gown for morning and afternoon lawn games. And evening gowns are a different beast entirely. I complain, but truly it feels so good to be clean and freshly changed so often—and into such beautiful clothes! The tavern-keeper’s wife has left the wooden bathtub in my rooms all week, as I have use of it so often.
“I must say,” said Buckingham, entering unannounced and dropping lazily onto the tufted window-seat, “befriending the wife is not a strategy I have seen before.”
“Not everything is strategy, George,” I snapped, looking for my gloves. It was the cream pair with the enamel buttons that I was particularly fond of. I had chosen to wear my new green gown with the custard-cream under-skirt, and they matched perfectly. “I have befriended her because I like her.”
“Like her.” Buckingham snorted. “What is there to like? She looks like a bat, dresses like a dormouse, and behaves like a frightened cat—three animals I do not find compelling.” Lifting up a pile of scripts, he found my gloves beneath. Handing them to me, he said sharply, “Do not get close to her, Ellen. Your tender little heart will go out to her, and then how will you bed her husband?”
I pulled on the gloves and shot him what I hoped was a condescending look. “I must get back. She is expecting me for cribbage.”
Buckingham laughed. “Christ on the cross! Cribbage and the queen—you do surprise, Ellen.”
“Always,” I shot back mischievously. I closed the door behind me and left him laughing inside.
August 8—Tunbridge Wells (warm)
We were all lying under the trees in the privy garden, the Wits and I looking over Etheredge’s revisions of his She Would If She Could (not bad, but still too long) when the talk fell to me.
“The secret is out, Nell,” Etheredge said, popping grapes into his mouth like an ancient Roman. “Everyone knows why you are here.” Discretion has never been Etheredge’s strong suit. “Now the question is, when will you make your move?”
“I think she has made it,” said Buckingham dryly. “She has come here and won over the queen—brilliant.”
“It is brilliant,” Sedley chipped in, reaching across Etheredge for the bowl of grapes. “Everyone has taken note of Nell’s subtlety and kindness, and she makes all the other sirens look like greedy harpies in comparison—particularly dumpy, demanding Moll. Brava, Nelly!”
“Subtlety!” Buckhurst snorted. “Since when has this court placed any value on subtlety?”
“Well, the king certainly won’t notice,” said young Mulgrave, his mouth full of grapes (he has the unfortunate habit of speaking whilst chewing). “He likes his women bold and brazen.”
“What makes you think he hasn’t noticed already?” said Rochester quietly. He was sitting apart under a pink and green apple tree, his eyes closed to the bright afternoon sun. “It is you who have no eye for subtlety. This king misses very little.”
“Just like you,” I said affectionately, leaning down to kiss his nose.
Later, ten p.m.
He has noticed me.
Tonight after wild dancing in Buckingham’s rooms—I wore my striped ruby-red waistcoat and matching velvet knee breeches and danced on the priceless furniture—Rochester escorted me back to my lodging. We were both a bit tipsy, and he insisted. I was surprised—such chivalry is unlike him, as he does not generally like to be put out. We were making our unsteady way through the New Gallery when he stopped and sat on a bench under one of the archways.
“Why’ve we stopped?” I whispered loudly, too loudly.
“Just hush and wait,” Rochester whispered back, blowing out his candle.
“Oh, Johnny,” I said, dismayed to be sitting in the dark. “I wish you hadn’t done that. What are we waiting for?”
“Me,” said a familiar voice in the shadows. A candle sprang to life. Him.
“Good night, Your Majesty,” said Rochester, rising to leave—suddenly seeming very sober. The king was expected, I realised. They had arranged this.
“Johnny, I—” Don’t leave me.
“Good night, Ellen,” Johnny said, brushing his lips over my forehead. “Be you,” he whispered in my ear, and then slipped away down the dark hallway. Did he really say that? Did I imagine it? Everything felt unreal all of the sudden.
“Ellen,” the king said warmly, “would you care to walk?”
“In the dark?” Why did I say that—obviously in the dark.
“Yes”—he chuckled—“in the dark.” Taking my hand in his, he led me out into the Great Court. The moon had silvered the even grass. The messy, busy palace lay in quiet, organised silhouette.
I secretly watched the man beside me. His height, his stride, his graceful lines. This man was the king. He had asked me for a midnight walk. Me. Me. Me. He wanted to walk with me. But this is a mistake, I wanted to tell him. I am Ellen, from Drury Lane. I sell oranges, and my sister sells her body. My mother sold her daughter. I act upon the stage. I am a common, common girl. I am not the girl you saw dancing in beautiful shoes.
Reaching for conversation, struggling to clear my head, struggling to absorb the reality of the situation, I questioned him about the progress of the building work in London. The queen was right: here lies his passion. He launched into a long discussion of the current building works. He told me of his great dream for a new city, of his genius architect—Mr. Christopher Wren, the astronomer visionary who would rebuild the churches. I was struck by his earnest care for each of his citizens. He is determined to protect them with a city of brick and stone: “A house of brick, should it catch fire, will only fall in upon itself. It will not endanger the other houses. A wooden house will take down a street.”
“Who could design such a city?” I asked, as if I were familiar with leading architects.
“I have decided not to favour one man’s plan over another’s, but to take the best of each,” he said evenly. “Wren’s and Evelyn’s plans are the best—Wren’s for beauty and Evelyn’s for sanitation—but I must not set them against each other.” Conflict clearly did not agree with this man. “I must draw the best from both.”
Forgetting my fear, I got caught up in his vision and began to question him in earnest: “But if you change the city plan, what will happen to those people who owned that land? It will not be the same.”
“The Londoners must trust me in this. Together, we will make a London so great that all the land will be of greater value and all will benefit.” As I listened to him, I realised that they were wrong: all those gossiping nay-sayers who believed that this was a debauched, lazy, indulgence-ridden king. Rochester was right: there was nothing careless in this man.
I could not see his face, but I felt his grip tighten around my hand, saw the heavy white lace of his cuff. He stopped at a stone bench under a large pear tree and turned to face me.
“You have befriended my wife.” It was a statement rather than a question.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“To get to me?”
“No.” I looked up and could just make out the serious lines of his countenance in the dimness. “No, at first because I pitied her, and now because I like her.”
“I like her, too,” the king said quietly. How strange, I thought. To be standing in the moonlight talking to a man of his wife. It could be any man. Any wife. But they are not. He continued, “I worry for her in this court. And I believe now that she will never bear children. But I cannot abandon her.”
“Because you love her?”
“Because she is my wife and it would be….” His voice trailed away. “Impossible,” he finished quietly. With that, he closed up like a tulip in the evening. I knew better than to push.
I tiptoed back to my rooms in the misty half-light and prepared for bed as the town began to stir. I feel as if I don’t need food or sleep or daylight. I can exist on this nourishing wonder. Alone in my rooms, I slip into my nightgown and, curling my arms around my knees, I think: Did this night happen?
When I Walk with the King
August 12, 1668—Hampton Court
We meet each night now, in the Great Court, in the moonlight. The weather has become terribly important to me. I pray for clear skies and fret when rain clouds threaten. I wait for him on the stone bench under the pear tree—our pear tree. We walk and talk and are often silent. I live for this time. I am Ellen and not Ellen. He makes me more. He is the king and not the king all at once. I am fascinated by the man. I feel helpless, enchanted by a spell I did not cast.
He does not kiss me. I tell no one.
August 15, 1668—Groundskeeper’s Lodge, Ham House
“Well?” Buckingham questioned me this morning, pulling back the bed curtains to allow the sunlight in. The king had arranged a set of rooms for me here in the keeper’s lodge, set far away from the rest of the court (although I gave out that they were arranged by Peg). I was surprised Buckingham had found me. “Ten gowns, eight hats, twelve pairs of slippers, and lots of precious time later—what have you accomplished?”
I quickly glanced over at the new striped apricot gown the king had given me, carelessly slung over a chair.
“What time is it?” I asked sleepily, sitting up. I had not returned until after five in the morning.
“Late, nearly luncheon. What are you doing sleeping? You went to bed early last night.” His eyes suddenly narrowed. “Unless you were not sleeping? Not alone? I will not pay for—”
“I was alone,” I cut him off. “I just did not sleep well,” I lied.
“He is swimming this morning. Do you swim? No, thought not. Well, get out there and cheer then. He is racing Mulgrave this morning—wiry little thing, swims like a fish, irritating.” He roughly handed me my wrapper. “Get up!”
He stomped out, leaving me to dress, but then banged back through the door. “Nell,” he said loudly, wagging a finger at me, “if you fail with him, then you’re for me, you know. I’ve paid for it.”
I cringed. “I am not for sale,” I told him pertly.
He turned to go, fed up with this conversation. “Ha! All women are for sale,” he said crassly, banging the door shut behind him.
Why didn’t I just tell him? We did make a plan. I have a different plan now. I am succeeding. I do not want to be a bought woman, and when I am with the king I am not, no matter who paid for my shoes.
August 20—Oxford, the Bear Inn, Bear Lane
The court has returned to Oxford for the end of the summer. The king—Charles, my Charlemagne—regards this city as his second home; he was delighted to discover it is the city of my birth. I am pleased, too, for it begins to feel like my home as well. With rooms of my own in this ancient snug inn, away from damp Farm Cottage and the empty echoing house in Longwall Street, I am beholden to none. No one understands my refusal to stay with the court, but I know I would be lessened there. And I cannot bring myself to lodge beneath the same roof as the woman I am so egregiously betraying—well, not betraying yet, but certainly hoping to. It would be a step too far.
After the court goes to sleep, we walk through the hushed city. Each ni
ght we visit a different college, sneaking about the quadrangles like runaways. He matches his long strides (he is so tall!) to my small ones without any appearance of effort. He is passionate about architecture and explains the different features of each building: pointing out the mediaeval elements of Merton, the Italianate renaissance details of University. Each college is like a jewel box that we open together. My mind is hungry for all he knows. Each night we walk a little farther.
He tells me of his life: his twelve-year exile and his hopeless cause. Wandering through Europe, a pauper king with no country or crown. He understands the humiliation of charity. He knows what it is to beg, to want, to need, to fear—it is something we share. I look at his plush velvet coat and his deep cuffs frothing with lace—such luxury; it is hard to believe he was not always like this. And then I look at his face—the fleeting, hunted looks that flash across like an interval in a play—and I can believe this man has been through anything. His mind is agile, and his laughter has a freeness I would not expect after hearing his stories.
He tells me of his small, warlike mother. The notorious Queen Henrietta Maria who drove this country away from the House of Stuart with her Catholicism and her inflexibility—her constant determination to rule her husband and her children, and her ruthless inability to forgive.
He tells me of his brother Henry’s terrible Protestant consumptive end, and his mother’s cruel refusal to see him unless he converted to the true faith. The stalemate lasted until death. Yet, he says, she is not a woman without feeling. He describes his parents’ marriage as passionate and devoted. He understands, I thought. That is the root of his magnetism. He sees people clearly and accepts their failings. It is a great strength.
