The Three Crowns

by Виктория Холт

  William, who had been staring at this man, thinking of him as the great enemy, now tried to grasp the importance of what he was trying to tell him. It came to him before the Grand Pensionary could tell him. There was one reason which would bring de Witte to the Palace in the Wood. Smallpox! And his mother at the English Court.

  John de Witte’s expression was one of compassion as he went on gently: “Your Highness, it is with sorrow that I have to tell you. Your mother died of the smallpox on the twenty-fourth day of December.”

  William did not speak. He stood, a small pathetic figure, trying to realize what this would mean. His father had died before his birth, and his death was merely something that he had heard talked of. True, it meant to him the loss of the Stadtholderate, but this was different. This was the loss of his mother whom he would never see again.

  A great sense of loneliness came over him in that moment. It stayed with him for a very long time.

  That was indeed a turning point. William was ten years old when his mother died; he had lost his greatest ally, but he had others in his uncles across the sea, for the King of England and the Duke of York let him know that they did not forget him. The Stuarts were a united family; and although he was a Dutchman, he was also English on his mother’s side; he was half-Stuart and the Stuarts’ days of obscurity were over; they were back in favor and they would not forget their own.

  He became more reserved than ever; his life seemed governed by one purpose. He was going to regain the Stadtholderate and show the world that a great spirit could burn within a meager frame. He realized quickly that those about him were uncertain of him and that this worked to his advantage. He was no ordinary boy; it was not that his tutors found him brilliant; apart from a natural aptitude for languages he did not excel in the schoolroom. His great strength was in his ability to hide what he was feeling; that almost unnatural calm which appeared to hide a deep profundity of thought. He was not interested in sports; he considered them a waste of time apart from hunting, which was, he believed, necessary to his manhood, and in this he showed that especial equestrian skill in which even he could not hide his pleasure. On a horse he was more, so his attendants said, like a human man than at any other time.

  De Witte selected his tutors and watched his progress uneasily, realizing that the people would never forget the magic name of Orange. William the Silent would always be one of their greatest national heroes; and this young Prince bore the same name and was of the same heroic branch.

  Throughout Holland the people talked of the young Prince and all they heard of him was to his advantage. When he was seen—on horseback—they cheered him, and as he passed into adolescence he became so popular that de Witte realized that sooner or later something would have to be done for him.

  Meanwhile William became more and more reserved with the years, keeping his own counsel, never forgetting for a moment his intention to show the world that diminutive William of Orange was one of the greatest figures of the time.

  He had his eyes on his uncles across the water! Charles, the King, who would help him one day when he was of an age to fight for his rights, and Uncle James, the great Admiral.

  When William was sixteen a plot was made to restore him to the Stadtholderate. William could not be blamed for taking part in it but John de Witte, seeing the direction in which public opinion was turning, decided it was wise to admit him to the Council of State.

  In his quiet manner William distinguished himself, and his popularity was growing.

  William was nineteen years of age when his uncle invited him to pay a visit to the English Court.

  The English Court. What a scene of vice! Sodom and Gomorrah! thought William.

  The manner in which the women painted their faces and exposed their bosoms appalled him; the men he considered to be even worse. Their satins and silks, their laces and scents, their conversation, their boasting of their conquests, their descriptions of their amatory adventures, were all very shocking to a young man who drank little wine, rose early and retired early, rarely laughed, and whose only indulgence was a love of the chase.

  And this was the English Court from which he hoped for so much. The King sporting with his mistresses—not one but several; the Duke of York notoriously unfaithful to his wife—she who had shocked his mother so much during that visit which had resulted in her death.

  He had come to talk seriously to the King about his prospects, and although Charles greeted him kindly and did not appear to think the less of him because he was so small and his back was not quite straight, he did not appear to wish for serious conversation with his nephew. William began to believe that they had invited him merely to take a look at him; and that because he was not like them—which God forbid—they despised him.

  One day Charles invited him to walk with him in the park of St. James’s. William felt a disadvantage walking beside his uncle, who was some six feet tall and in his feathered hat seemed a giant. Charles was kindly though; he seemed to understand William’s feeling for when they had walked a little distance he said, “We will sit a while, nephew. There we can talk at our ease.”

  He asked William questions about life at The Hague and talked with affection and humor of the days when he had been an exile there. Occasionally he would ask a shrewd question and William realized that while Charles was discovering what he wanted to know, he, William, had little chance of asking the questions he had had in his mind.

  But William was not one to be put off. When his uncle stopped speaking for a while, he began to tell him of the difficulties of his position and how he feared he would never regain his rights while the de Wittes were in power. William believed his uncle would understand the advantages to England of a Holland ruled solely by his own nephew who would be forever grateful for the help he received.

  “We are a grateful family, we Stuarts,” said Charles, smiling warmly. “We stand together, which shows that as well as being a united family we are a wise one. Why look, there is Buckingham. Buckingham! Come and amuse the Prince of Orange.”

  George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, came languidly to the seat on which the King and his nephew sat. The King signed to him to be seated and he placed himself on the other side of the Prince of Orange.

  Between these two William felt immediately at a disadvantage. Buckingham was decidedly handsome; he was arrogant, and not inclined to hide the fact even from the King who seemed to delight in his company and to show no resentment at being treated as an equal. How could the King make a favorite of a man of such a reputation? William asked himself. The scandals concerning this man had reached Holland and William knew that the Earl of Shrewsbury had challenged him to a duel because of his guilty intrigue with his, Shrewsbury’s, wife. Shrewsbury had been wounded and two months later had died; and afterward Buckingham had lived openly with the Countess. And all this the lazy good-natured King had known and shrugged aside. Men must settle their own affairs, was his verdict.

  It was no way to rule.

  William’s thin lips were drawn up into an expression of disdain as Buckingham took his seat; and both the Duke and the King were aware of this. William did not see the glances which flashed between them. Buckingham’s said: Watch. We’ll have some sport with the Dutch boy.

  “Ah, Your Highness,” he said, “and how is The Hague? I remember The Hague. Never shall I forget it. Surely the neatest trimmest town in the world. And the neatest trimmest people. I always felt a little more wicked in The Hague than I did anywhere else. The comparison, you see, Your Highness.”

  “Comparisons are odorous,” murmured the King.

  “Not in Holland, Sire. In Holland all is scrubbed free of odor. I believe that to be why there is such an abundance of canals?”

  “You are mistaken,” began William.

  Charles laid his hand on the young man’s arm. “Buckingham intends to joke. It’s a poor joke, my lord. You should try to do better.”

  “I stand reproved in the sight of Your Majesty and Your Hi
ghness. And I fear my stupidity may spoil my chances of having a favor granted.”

  “Well, let us hear what favor you ask before you lose heart,” suggested Charles.

  “It was an invitation from some friends for His Highness. A little supper party—which we would try to make worthy of the Prince.”

  “I do not attend supper parties …” began William.

  But Charles intervened, by tightening his grasp on his nephew’s arm and smiling benignly. “Oh, come, nephew. You must not decline the hand of friendship. Join the revels. You must get to know us. We are friends, are we not? Then we must understand each other’s customs.”

  It seemed to William that there was a promise in that.

  He turned to Buckingham. “I thank you. I accept your invitation. And … thank you.”

  Buckingham inclined his head and as he lifted it, his eyes met those of the King. Charles’s were sardonic. Some little joke was being planned. It would be a good one, since it was Buckingham’s idea. He looked forward to hearing what happened to William at the Duke’s supper party.

  William entered the small chamber which seemed to be full of extravagantly clad men, laughing gaily and drinking. He looked about him anxiously and saw with relief that there were no women present. He did not know what to expect, but knowing the morals of this court greatly feared he might have been invited to an orgy for the sexes. The thought of this had filled him with terror; and yet at the same time had awakened thoughts in him of which he would not have believed himself capable. He had begun to ask himself whether if he had not such a destiny to fulfill he might not have enjoyed a little dalliance with women. And might it not be part of a great soldier’s life to indulge in amatory adventures? Women to admire him, to tell him that he was the most attractive man in the world, that men such as his uncle were tolerated for their rank while he …

  But what was happening to him since he had come to the English Court? Did he not despise these men with their effeminate lacy garments, and to whom the whole meaning of life seemed to be the seduction of women?

  Buckingham was greeting him with more reverence than he had shown in the garden and in the presence of the King.

  “Your Highness, our little gathering is honored indeed.”

  Others were crowding round him, and he recognized them as some of the biggest rakes and libertines of his uncle’s court: Rochester, Dorset, Charles Sedley, and Henry Savile. His nose twitched in disdain as he remembered some of the almost incredible stories he had heard of their exploits. Nothing, it seemed, was too wild for them. Theirs was no company in which the Prince of Orange should find himself. He should never have accepted Buckingham’s invitation.

  “We are greatly favored,” murmured Rochester.

  “My lords,” replied Sedley, “we must have such sport this night as we have not had since those days when His Majesty first returned to his kingdom.”

  “I am not much given to sport,” said William dourly.

  “We have heard reports of Your Highness’s decorum,” Savile murmured. “A lesson to us all.”

  “We shall all be better men from this night onward,” declared Buckingham, “for it is our great desire to learn from you how a gentleman can restrain his fancies.”

  “I do not understand,” began William.

  “Will Your Highness be seated and allow us to sit with you?”

  “Certainly.”

  William sat down and Buckingham cried, “Wine … wine for His Highness.”

  “Not wine for me. I drink little and then only when thirsty. Perhaps a little ale?”

  “Or Hollands Gin?” suggested Buckingham. “A right goodly drink, I’ll swear. Shall we drink to the future prosperity of the House of Orange in Hollands Gin?”

  “His Highness must certainly drink to the friendship between our two countries,” said Sedley. “And it is the custom here that if we drink in his country’s drink, he drinks in ours.”

  “I have told you that I take little drink.”

  “For a custom, Your Highness.”

  William felt uneasy; he looked into that circle of faces aware that all eyes were on him. He fancied they were laughing at him, at his lack of worldliness, at his inability to drink as they and most certainly at his meager body—they who apparently worshipped their bodies, decking them out in silks and satins, indulging their appetites.

  “For a custom then,” he said rashly.

  “Done!” cried Buckingham.

  They stood and raised their glasses. “Hurrah for Orange, Stadtholder of Holland!”

  “Hurrah for Orange!”

  There was a slight flush in William’s face; they were all smiling at him as though they were in truth his friends. They would help him to regain his rights. This was what he had dreamed of. Was it not for this that he had come to England?

  The Duke of Buckingham was calling for more wine. Sparkling wine! Now they would drink to the friendship between their two countries.

  “It is our custom, Your Highness, to drain the glass. To leave a little in the bottom is an insult.” He rose to his feet. “My friends, we are greatly honored tonight. Come, the toast! Our Sovereign Lord the King and his nephew the Prince of Orange—friends and kinsmen. May they never forget the bond between our two countries.”

  William drained his glass. He felt a little light-headed, but Buckingham was at his side.

  “Your Highness, this is a happy night for us all …”

  Sedley had leaned forward and filled the Prince’s glass. “I see Your Highness is a man who knows how to hold his drink. Now I propose the toast. Victory for His Highness of Orange in all that he endeavors.”

  William drained the glass.

  He was beginning to feel pleasantly at ease. A warm glow had settled on him; he no longer believed that his companions were laughing at him. Far from it. He felt six feet tall, a man among men; they were his friends, his kind respectful friends. They wanted to please him, Buckingham was telling him. In fact it was the object of this party—in honor of the Prince, to please the Prince.

  No one in Holland had ever accorded him such respect; and never had he felt quite as he did on this day.

  He was lolling back in his chair. Buckingham was telling him how he had fought a duel with Shrewsbury. It seemed very funny, although William had, only that day when he had been regretting that he had accepted Buckingham’s invitation, recalled that incident with distaste.

  Buckingham was talking of his mistresses—familiarly and again amusingly; and he spoke as though William were as knowledgeable in these matters as he was.

  Sedley and Rochester joined in, capping each other’s stories. Every now and then one of them would stand and lift his glass, mention a woman’s name and they would all drink. The more William drank of the wine, the more he liked it; and the less sleepy he became. He heard someone laughing uproariously and to his amazement discovered that it was himself.

  “His Highness is cleverer than any of us,” said Buckingham.

  He liked that. The sense of power was with him. He was cleverer than any of them. He needed to be.

  “So solemn. So serious. Ah, but what is he like in my lady’s bedchamber?”

  William joined in the laughter.

  “Oh, His Highness admits it among his friends.” Buckingham sighed. “Would that I had had the wit to hide my weakness. What a lot of trouble I should have been saved.”

  “His Highness could teach us much.”

  “Oh, depend upon it.”

  “Did you see that pretty maid of honor. The new one. A ripe young virgin, I’ll swear. Not more than sixteen. Ha, I see His Highness is listening intently. I’ll warrant he has already marked her for his own?”

  “Seen her, smiled on her! Then what is the betting she is a virgin no more?”

  “I’ll take you up there, Sedley.”

  “One hundred.”

  “Make it two.”

  “But how test the truth?”

  “I’ll warrant His Highness will tel
l us how.”

  Buckingham bent closer to William. “Your Highness,” he said, “we promised you good sport tonight.”

  “Lead me to it,” said William in slurred voice.

  The others exchanged glances. The plot was a wild success. Charles was going to laugh at this; and there was nothing that he liked so much as to be amused by the wild adventures of his roystering courtiers. And this one was going to please him more than most. He had said that William was like a eunuch and he often wondered whether those clever de Wittes hadn’t made him one just to make sure of the end of the House of Orange.

  Buckingham had countered. “Would Your Majesty wager on the matter?”

  “Right gladly,” the King had replied. “And to have it proved that my nephew was indeed a man would give me such pleasure that I’d be willing to be the loser.”

  “All in good time. I can see Your Highness is a man who does not like to wait when the urge is on him,” Buckingham was telling William.

  All the others were laughing; so was William. They knew him better than he knew himself. They were sure he was a success with women. He thought of Elizabeth Charlotte who had quite clearly wanted the marriage between them far more than he had. His dear friends knew more about him than he knew himself. He would be the greatest ruler in Europe—wise, shrewd, successful in all campaigns—yes, every one he undertook, on the battlefield or in the bedchamber.

  “As His Highness is in no mood for waiting, let us be gone,” suggested Sedley.

  Buckingham rose and put his fingers to his lips. The others did the same. Then William stood up and he too put his fingers to his lips.

  The room reminded him of the ship on which he had crossed to England, so unsteady was the floor. He laughed aloud. He was so happy to be in England because the English understood him as no one in Holland ever had.

  Buckingham took one of his arms, Rochester the other, and with exaggerated caution they left the apartment.